


Whipping Boy

by Wrappedbubble



Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, Arthur!whump, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Hurt/Comfort, Other, Physical Abuse, Psychological Torture, Torture, Triggers, Violence, Whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-28
Updated: 2019-06-06
Packaged: 2019-11-06 12:46:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 20
Words: 32,720
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17939981
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wrappedbubble/pseuds/Wrappedbubble
Summary: When Colm O'Driscoll wants to improve gang morale he knows just what he needs.  A whipping boy.  And luckily he's got his hands on Arthur Morgan.TumbleSnout asked if I'd ever considered writing whump.  This is what happened as a result!It's not a pretty story and it's likely to contain triggers so if you're not in a place to read it that's cool.  Also please keep an eye on tags and relationships as they may change/ be added to as I go.XAlso I own nothing to do with rockstar or their games/characters/ideas.   But I do so love them and their work.*HUGE THANKS to you guys for reading and leaving me kudos... even after the fic was completed!  You're all awesome * <3





	1. Chapter 1

Everywhere he turned he could see O'Driscolls. They had gathered around him in a loose circle, armed and dangerous while he stood with no weapons to protect him, no horse to run away on and with no one knowing he was here. They hadn't yet bothered to tie him up because there was no way that he was getting away from them unless they allowed it.

The circle of men parted a little as Colm O'Driscoll pushed past them to stand in front of Arthur. 

"This is most fortuitous," Colm said. 

"Awful big word there Colm, careful you don't hurt yourself," Arthur muttered at him. With no weapons to aim and with nothing to lose he shot back with his words instead. Colm approached him slowly, smiling, and took hold of Arthur's chin in a bruising pinch before knocking his face sideways with a hefty back handed swipe to the jaw. 

"You carry on like that boy and I'll cut that smart tongue of yours out of your head, " Colm said as Arthur spat blood onto the dusty earth. Colm turned and motioned to one of his gang who handed him a small burlap sack which Arthur eyed warily as Colm gathered it up at the sides. Arthur knew what was happening and he refused to let Colm put that over his head without a fight but strong arms from behind him grasped him by the wrists, pulling them behind him, holding so tight that he was sure his bones were grinding against one another. More O'Driscolls closed in on him and held him firm and upright, grabbing at his arms and his waist while another tied his wrists numbingly tight behind his back and another held his head still while a gag was jammed into his mouth and tied tightly in place. Colm stood in front of him, sack still raised and still smiling. "Bye bye," he said, jamming the sack over Arthur's head. A last shocking white hot burst of pain across his temple and the world went black. 

\------------------------

"Can you stand up?" Arthur heard the words through a rapidly diminishing haze of comfort and quiet, his eyes squeezed shut against the pain in his head. Someone was there, someone was asking after him. Relief flooded through him as he opened his mouth to answer but it turned quickly to confusion when he realised that he couldn't speak. He was still gagged and he tried to talk around it, tried to convey that he was sure he could stand but could they take the gag off. He tried to move but he was still tied at the wrists. He opened his eyes and saw the inside of the sack. Panic struck like a lightning bolt and he twisted against the ropes and tossed his aching head to try to get the sack off his face. 

"Can you stand up? " the voice said again, hands fisting in the front of his shirt to drag him to his feet, another pair of hands under his arms to steady him in place once he was upright. He swayed in place, dizzy from the rapid awakening, from the inability to see, from not having his hands in front to help balance him. A couple of stumbling steps one way and then another. But he stayed upright. 

"Good, " said the voice, with some satisfaction. "Go tell Colm. " He heard footsteps on wooden stairs and there was a hand around the back of his neck through the material of the sack. "Come on then, up you go." He was pushed insistently forward until his feet met steps and he stumbled awkwardly up them, pitching out at the top because he had not known they had come to an end.

"Well look who finally decided to join us," he heard Colm say. He was outside. He knew that much. Must have come from a basement. "Step this way, we have some new accommodations for you." Arthur felt his stomach bottom out, a cold feeling of nerves settled in as he walked unseeingly where ever the hand on his neck guided him. "Now I won't lie, there's still a little work to do but it's certainly fit for purpose, " Colm drawled, sounding too nice, too accommodating. Arthur could hear hammering and sawing near by. "Step up," Colm said. He felt his feet hit into something in front of him. It felt like tree stump as he stepped up on up it. It was small, just enough room for him to balance on which he did once the hand around his neck was gone. "You steady up there? " Colm said and Arthur heard him click his fingers. A moment of silence stretched out uncomfortably. He could feel that someone was behind him, could hear the rustle of their clothes. Could hear something happening. A rope. There was a rope around his neck. Someone was tightening it uncomfortably, pushing down on his throat enough to make it feel like someone was just holding the tip of a blade there. Enough to make him start to tremble in a way that he could not stop. "Don't fall now will you," Colm said from further off. He heard laughter moving away from him and still the sawing and hammering continued.

Arthur stood there, shaking, sweating, trying not flinch when he hears sounds that are too close to him. His breathing catches continually against the tight pull of the noose and he is horribly aware of the building need to relieve himself. That somehow seems to be the worst part of it because he dreads Colm seeing that he's pissed himself. He shifted his feet, moved his toes as if to remind himself that they needed to stay put and he listened to the chirp of the birds turn into the chirp of cicadas as night began to fall. He could smell smoke and food. He held on until his stomach was burning and pain shot through him with every breath. He held on until he was sure that no one would notice. He held on until he couldn't anymore, finally giving in and pissing down his own leg. The relief and tiredness that came from the mercy of no one noticing was finally overwhelming. 

\--------------

Arthur was awoken only by the sudden realisation that he was hanging. He tried urgently to draw breath in through his nose, gagged as he was at the mouth, but the pain and choking had made his eyes tear up and his nose was blocking up too and his feet were scrabbling around, sometimes knocking up against the tree stump but he couldn't get himself back up.

Just as suddenly as it started it was stopping. Arms around his waist dragged him struggling against the lack of air back to the tree stump and set his feet on it. Arthur heaved air in and out of his nose, messily unblocking it with huge out-breaths and burning in-breaths. 

"Up you go," said the person who had hold of him.

Arthur stood openly shaking on the tree stump, forcing air in and out, over and over until his heartbeat settled back down. 

"You stink of piss Morgan," he heard Colm's voice close to him. "Gave yourself a bit of a fright there didn't you? " he said, slapping Arthur on the shoulder and laughing as Arthur lurched forward into the noose with no way of stopping himself. Hands pushed at his chest and back until he was steady again. He waited for someone to say something, for someone to say anything but nothing happened. He turned his head as much as he could, hoping to pick up on the sounds of someone nearby but he couldn't sense a thing. He had never felt more alone in his life. 

\----------------


	2. Chapter 2

He was finding it hard to tell but he was certain he'd been up there for at least a day and a half. The sawing and hammering had ceased a few hours previously and he could hear the usual sounds of a camp at work. His throat ached and burned from the rope and from thirst. He was desperately tired but he knew that he could not risk falling asleep. It would go one of two ways. Either Colm would have him set back where he was and carry on this despicable torture or he'd let him hang himself. Neither was a good outcome. He shuffled his feet a little, flexed his fingers. He waited. More hours passed and he stood through another sunset, another sunrise, into the morning of another day when he heard the scuff of shoes in the dry dust of the ground getting closer. He knew he was starting to shake as they reached him, the fear of the unknown left him cold and sweating and blinking back on tears that he'd rather no one see. 

Hands grabbed roughly at his noose and yanked it back over his head. The sudden let up of pressure was dizzying and Arthur fell to the ground off the stump instantly, unable to stop himself with his hands tied behind him. He heard laughter as he hit the floor. Lots of laughter. The sack was pulled off and he rolled from his side to his back as much as his hands would let him, blinking against the harshness of daylight after all the semi darkness that he had been kept in. Colm was a menacing silhouette above him. He regarded Arthur's prone form for a moment before turning to address his gang, gathered all around him. 

"I know that I am not always the easiest of people to follow," Colm said. "My temper is short and I don't take kindly to failure. But you, my men, my brothers, you have stayed with me through it all, loyal each and every one of you. And for that I am going to give you something you all deserve." He stopped and smiled down at Arthur, kneeling slowly next to his head and grabbing a handful of hair to turn Arthur's head. He was looking at a timber A- frame, a hook at the top of it and a coil of rope on the floor at each leg. "Say hello to your new whipping boy!" he shouted, to the whoops and cheers from the men around him. He was dragged to his feet, the ropes around his wrists were cut and feeling came back to them in a rush of pins and needles. Colm stood in front of him and unbuttoned Arthur's shirt slowly, smiling the whole time. He pushed it open and down his arms to drop to the ground. Colm reached for Arthur's wrists, pulling them infront of Arthur and tying them tightly there. "Now that's much better behaviour, Dutch will be so pleased to hear that you've been such a good guest when we give you back. Or should I say, if we give you back." 

He was pushed and pulled and dragged through the dust, tripping and stumbling until he was thrust up against the frame. Colm pulled his arms up and snagged the rope holding his wrists together over the hook at the top, kicking at his feet to spread his legs while other hands secured his ankles to the bottom of the frame. Colm stepped around the frame and faced Arthur, dangling a poorly prepared rabbit pelt in his face. Arthur raised his head to look at him as he addressed him. 

"Does this look like a decent pelt to you?" Colm said. Arthur glared at him and slowly shook his head. "What would you say it's worth? Five cents? Maybe ten if we're lucky?" Arthur looked at him, unable to speak though his gag. "No idea? You sure ain't got much to say for yourself have you? Now Billy brought this to me and expected me to be pleased with him. I am not pleased with him. Can a crew like mine be expected to run on this kind of horse shit?" Arthur shook his head again as Colm held a hand out to the side. Someone placed a whip in his hand and Arthur tensed on instinct. Colm walked away, disappeared from Arthur's view and stood behind him. Arthur waited, wrists burning against the pull of the hook as he waited out each drawn out second. The moment the whip made contact with his skin he bellowed against his gag. A second crack of it and he shouted out again, muffled and broken. A third quickly followed. This was the most specific and violent kind of pain he had ever experienced. It shredded at him in waves of cold and heat. He was snorting air in and out through his nose, his gag was saturated with his own saliva as a fourth crack snapped across his back, making him howl out again. He couldn't stop himself screaming, he couldn't help the grunts and groans and spit and snot. He was breathing too fast, his vision was darkening at the edges and as a fifth blow struck at him, the world went black.

\-----------------

He awoke with a jolt as a bucket of cold water was thrown over him. The movement pulled at his wrists and ankles and stretched out the cuts that the whip had left across his back. He shook his head and tried to clear his vision, to get the water off his face and out of his eyes. He must have been out cold for some time because dusk was rapidly approaching. 

"You're coming with me," someone said from down by his feet. Whoever it was was undoing the ropes around his ankles and then reaching up to unhook his wrists. Arthur slumped across the middle strut of the frame once he was unbound from the main structure, his strength all but gone. "No time for that, come on," said the man who had taken him down. He let himself be dragged back down to the cellar that he assumed he had been kept in before. With no sack on his head he could see a lantern casting a dim light over the room, a cot with no cover, a table, and a few shelves. But strangest of all there was a bath tub in the middle of the room, filled with water. 

"Boss don't want you up there all night bleeding out and attracting animals. Says to get you all cleaned up ready for tomorrow. " The man unbuckled Arthur's belt, bent to take his boots off and pulled his trousers down leaving Arthur fully exposed. "Get in," the man said, nodding at the bath tub. Arthur moved to try to remove his gag. It was a sodden mess and it wore at his skin and pressed his teeth into his lips. He could taste blood there. "Ah ah ah, no you don't," the man said. Arthur knew better than to argue. He steeped into the bath and huffed a breath out through his nose at the temperature. It was freezing cold and he shivered instantly at it, pathetic little grunts escaped from around his gag. "All the way," he was told, hands on his shoulders pushing him down to his knees in the frigid water. "Let's clean you up then," he heard as his head was suddenly shoved under the surface before he had chance to take enough air in. He struggled and jerked up against the hand that held him there. He flailed until his lungs burned with the effort and he could tell that he was slowing down, his movements becoming less frequent but stiffer. Just as quickly as he had started it, the man yanked him back to his knees with a fist in his hair. Arthur blasted water from his nostrils, his eyes were stinging and watering and he fought the urge to vomit because he knew he would choke on it. Before he could compose himself even slightly his hands were tied behind his back again. "Get out and get some sleep," the man said to him before he left Arthur there, on his knees in the cold water, locking the door behind him. 

\------------------


	3. Chapter 3

After getting himself out of the bath Arthur had shivered and shaken until sleep finally claimed him. Tied as he was he hadn't been able to get any clothes on. He had curled on the cot on his side facing the steps that lead up to the door, able at least to cover his manhood and not leave his bare backside exposed. It was the slap across his face that woke him up with a start. 

"Good morning sunshine," Colm said, looking him up and down. "Enjoy your bath? Bet you didn't think you'd get such good service huh? Well come on then, get up. My men have work to do and you'd better hope they do it well. For my preference? I'm kinda hoping they don't," he said with a sneer. 

Arthur struggled himself up into a seating position, cheeks burning with the shame that came from being in a position that no longer hid anything.

"Oh you're embarrassed!?" Colm all but cooed at him. "How precious." Colm grabbed at Arthur's trousers and rucked up one leg. "Well? Lift your foot then," he said. Arthur did as he was bid, aware that this might be the only positive of the entire experience. Colm pushed the trousers up over one foot then repeated the action with the other. "Trust me Morgan, no one here wants to see that," he said, pressing a hand to Arthur's back to get him up off the cot so he could finish pulling the trousers up and button them. 

Over head Arthur heard some commotion, a clattering of pans and a shout. 

"Hmm, looks like your day is off to a bad start," Colm said, as coolly as if he were discussing the weather.

The muscles of Arthur's back twitched and he felt a sweep of nausea pass over him. His back had not even begun to heal after the whipping he had been given the day before. He could still feel the occasional run of a line of blood from some of the cuts when he moved. He planted his feet on instinct, pressing back on Colm and his incessant push towards the stairs. He struggled uselessly and shouted into his gag, twisting and trying to get away. His body had taken over despite his mind knowing it was useless. He had no means of escape.

"Delay tactics, that's all it is," Colm said close to his ear. "But you carry on if you like. I must admit, it is fun to watch." Colm suddenly stepped away, removing his hand from Arthur's back and laughed cruelly as Arthur fell, landing heavily on his tied hands, driving the air in his lungs up and out of his nose. Arthur groaned and rolled to his side, and was greeted with a heavy kick to the stomach which he heaved on, narrowly stopping himself being sick at the last moment. "That was a dumb ass move. Now you're in more pain than you needed to be," Colm said, teasingly. "Now be a good boy and let's go get you some fresh air." Arthur gave up, slumped as he was and allowed Colm to all but drag him up the stairs and shove him roughly away from the basement door. He stumbled but stayed on his feet, feeling the stare of the camp on him. He looked towards the A-frame, panic already welling up inside him, already picking up his heartbeat and making him breathe harder and faster. Colm took hold of his elbow and walked him there, stopping him next to it and untying his hands to re-tie them in front. Just as he had done the day before. Arthur willed himself to calm down, willed his muscles to stay loose but his body refused to listen to his mind and he kept his arms stiff and unhelpful as they were pulled up above his head to loop the rope over the hook. His legs tried to stay together when they were pulled out to meet the frame at the ankles. 

"So," Colm said, stepping into Arthur's eye line. "Turns out our cook has allowed an accident to happen on his watch. A minor spillage, but it means that some of my men aren't going to get breakfast. Does that seem fair to you?" He pushed himself close to Arthur's space, face to face until Arthur shook his head. "And here I was going to give you some food later on. You must be starving by now." Colm moved away and out of view and Arthur truly felt that being forewarned really cannot mean that he is forearmed. A crack of the whip and fire is burning across his aching back and he is yelling again just like that day before. "I'm a good aim boy," Colm shouted as he brought the whip down again, Arthur arching as much as the frame and his bonds allowed him to. "You should be grateful!". A third swipe and he can hold it back it back no more. He vomited bile hard against the gag and choked on it, it filled his nostrils and he heaved it back down his throat and back out of his nose, body jerking against the intrusion in his mouth. He barely registered the feel of a knife at the back of his head cutting the gag away until it fell to the floor and he coughed hard, spitting blood and bile and phlegm on to the dirt in front of him. Someone to the side of him threw a bucket of cold water over him and he gasped and shouted wordlessly at the sudden slap of it. Before he had time to even think about what had happened, before he could rid his mouth of anymore bile and spit another gag is forced into his mouth and tied tightly. "You'll be no fun if you're dead you know," Colm said, slapping him hard on the back, illiciting a groan from Arthur.

\---------------------------

He stayed awake, painfully awake through the rest of the day, arms and legs going numb where he stood, letting his head hang low. The camp was busy around him but thankfully no one came to bother him. He had expected harsh words at the best, kicks, punches and whipping at the worst but none came. The situation made him nervous and twitchy. Noises that should be normal became monsters in his mind, coming to get him. And any time he twitched his back burned and itched and bled and he could feel the soft landing of flies on the cuts, buzzing as they came and went. The smell of food starting to cook in the late afternoon made his stomach heave and ache and his mouth filled with saliva. He raised his head just enough to watch without drawing attention to himself and watched as the O'Driscolls gathered around the cook fire and helped themselves to food, drinking and smoking and laughing. He dropped his gaze again. It was too close to watching a family at rest, it was too painful to see. He had to have been missed by his gang by now, surely. But he had gone out hunting in supposedly safe territory and not returning for a few days was hardly out of character for him. Two more days, he promised himself. He could cope with two more days and surely by then Dutch would get suspicious and surely Dutch would think first of the O'Driscolls and surely Charles and John would help him to track them down and surely, surely they would find him. He was so busy making silent trade deals with himself, baragining pleas and prayers that he did not notice his arms being lifted down and his ankles untied until it was almost done. The same man, the same voice, the same person as the day before untied his wrists from in front and tied them behind, took him back to the basement where the same bath was waiting for him. The water looked filthy and Arthur assumed that they weren't going to bother changing it for him.

"Bath time," the man said, removing Arthurs trousers again. Arthur did not bother hesitating this time. He stepped in and shivered as he got down to his knees and took a deep breath in ready to be dunked under. The man pushed him down slightly, sloshed water up over his back and on his face, over his head but he kept Arthurs face above the surface. "Should stop you getting infected," he was told as he started to get back to his knees, the faint stirrings of gratitude beginning as he tried to raise up on shaking shivering legs. With no warning, the man bathing him suddenly grabbed his throat and twisted him on to his back, shoving him under the water, holding him tightly there as Arthur struggled, hands pinned under him, tied and useless. The hand tightened around his throat and dragged him back up into the air. Arthur was shoved stomach first across the side of the tub, panting as much as his water filled nose would allow. "Sorry," said the man. "I missed a bit."

By the time he had got himself out of the bath and on to the cot he was alone, locked in his basement cold and alone.


	4. Chapter 4

"You're pathetic really." It was Colm's sneering voice that roused Arthur from his sleep. It frightened him to know that Colm had got all the way to him through the locked door, across the room, and Arthur had not woken until he spoke. He was so hurt, just so very hurt. Everything either stung or throbbed or ached. He moaned against his gag, against being woken, against having to take anymore pain. Colm reached out a hand and stroked Arthur on the cheek. He flinched away, the movement too fast and too painful.

"I understand," Colm said, the sickly sweet tone that he used put Arthur on more of a knife edge than he was already on. "You need a rest." Colm pushed Arthur face down into the cot and ran a hand over the cuts that his whipping had caused. He checked that Arthur's wrists were still well secured before pushing him back on to his side. Arthur watched without moving as Colm left the basement, locking the door behind him. Time moved sluggishly as he lay, naked and cold. He closed his eyes and was just in that comforting place between awake and asleep when he heard the door being unlocked again, and an O'Driscoll came down the steps carrying a rope and dragging a wooden upright chair behind him.

"So Colm tells me you need to relax a bit," he said to Arthur. "You do look like shit." Arthur was pulled up and his trousers were put on again. He sat on the edge of the cot and watched as the O'Driscoll took down the lantern that was hanging from the ceiling and set it on the table. The chair was set down under the hook that had held the lantern and the rope was fed through the hook, trailing almost to the floor. "I've been told to make you nice and comfortable so up you get." Arthur heaved his aching body up to a standing position and shuffled over to the chair, stood in front of it. The O'Driscoll stepped around him and tied the rope to Arthur's wrists, adjusting it then pushing Arthur down to the seat. He sat heavily, not strong enough to resist the hands on his shoulders, as the rope attached to the ceiling reached it's limit and pulled his arms away from his back and up. His shoulders violently protested the movement and he muffled out a yell of pain. The rope was just long enough not to dislocate his shoulders but just short enough to cause him continuous pain.

"You just sit there and take it easy," Arthur had closed his eyes against the pain but he could hear the tease, the smile on the words. He breathed heavily, awkwardly, bent forward to try to get as much of his back up towards his aching arms as possible. It is this, this hideous use of the idea of needing a rest that pushes him over the edge, and he sobs openly, giving in to the tears, sniffing loudly to keep his nose clear and not even caring if every damned O'Driscoll in the camp can hear him through the locked doors. He doesn't seem to be able to stop, and the sobs rack at his body pulled out at angles that he wants to scream at. He has lost all track of time, he can hardly remember the last time be spoke and it occurs to him that with all that is happening he may never want to speak again. He has no words in his vocabulary that he can think of that can convey this to anyone.

\-----------------------

Arthur is still sat awkwardly when someone unlocks the basement door, closing it behind themselves and approaching him.

"Brought you some food," Colm. It was Colm. Arthur did not, could not raise his head to look at him. He was frightened that it would upset his balance and the uneasy equilibrium of limbs that he'd managed to attain. The parts that were numb could stay numb. At least that way he did not have to feel them. A knife at the back of his head made him flinch on instinct as it cut the gag away. He shifted his jaw, moved his tongue. It all felt wrong, too sore and too stiff. Colm used a fist in Arthur's hair to pull his head up and shove a chunk of bread into Arthur's mouth. It was too dry and difficult to swallow. Arthur felt as if it would choke him and he coughed around it, crumbs dropping to the floor at his feet. Without warning Colm pressed a cup to his lips and tipped a large mouthful of water into him. Arthur swallowed as much as he could while spluttering and coughing, taking down air as well and feeling as though it was all caught up in his throat. Before he could even stop coughing Colm had replaced his gag with a new one. 

"We've had some trouble today," Colm said, talking calm and easy as though they were old friends. "Few of the boys not done so well. So you keep resting up down here, because you've got some lost time to make up for tomorrow." Colm patted him on the head and Arthur gave in again. He sobbed openly in front of Colm, loud and noisy in to the back of the gag, snot and dribble and tears making a mess of his face. 

"Oh now, don't be like that. It's not a good look for you." Colm said. Arthur shook his head and could not stop crying. He heaved in at air, and moaned at the pain that his jerking movement on the rope caused. He was vaguely aware of someone shouting for Colm outside, of another commotion, of more petty misdemenours that he would unfairly have to make up for. Colm went to the door and opened it. Arthur heard him yelling, heard him cursing. Heard gunshots and the door being locked again and still he continued to cry broken sobs in to his gag.


	5. Chapter 5

It's not until it all goes quiet, until he has cried himself out that Arthur realises how noisy it had been in the first place. There had been shouting, yelling, running. He'd heard horses and gun shots. But now there was nothing and that terrified him. If the O'Driscoll camp had been ambushed and no one thought to look in here then no one would find him. The realisation broke over him and he shook violently where he sat.

He heard the lock on the basement door being shot clean off and his tremors increased. He did not know who it was but it could be anyone. It could be Colm. He felt a cold sweat breaking out all over him, stinging as it ran into the still unhealed wounds on his back. He did not dare to raise his head as footsteps came down the steps, he felt his chest heaving and pulling on his arms painfully, the breaths coming faster and harder and making his vision blur out at the edges. Someone was shouting but he could only seem to latch on to part of what was being said. Hands were touching him and he flinched and pulled and yelled into his gag at the agony that the movement was causing him. He could feel knives everywhere, at his wrists, at the back of his neck. He tumbled forward and the gag fell from his mouth, his arms swung down by his sides and he was pushed upright, feeling returning to his strained out arms making them burn with pain.

Someone was gripping his face and talking at him but he could not make out who was there. He heard the person shouting it at him, once, twice. "Can you stand up? Can you stand?". He twisted to get away, driving his heels down into the ground and refusing to move any further as he was pushed along resisting as much as his broken body could, as much as his broken mind would allow. He could not take any more punishment, could not go back up to that frame. It would kill him, he knew that now.

"I've got him!" the voice shouted. Arthur weakly flailed in the persons grip and all he could think was that he did not want to be got, taken, hurt anymore. "Damn it Arthur, move!" He registered that the person was using his name and he felt his feet comply with the demand as he was shoved up the steps and out on to open. 

"I've got his satchel," another voice called from somewhere. 

"Good, forget the guns, he can buy more but bring that satchel," something sounded familiar about this third voice to Arthur but Colm sounded familiar to him too. And so did the man who had dunked him every day. Familiarity was no security and it was that thought that broke through all others as a horse and rider drew up along side him, attempting to haul him up to the saddle with the help of the person who had brought him from the basement. He fought against their pull, grunting and yelling wordlessly as much a response to being forced up on the horse as it was a response to the pain that his movements was causing. 

"Arthur, son, I know you've been through hell but I swear if you don't calm down I'll tie you back up until we get home." 

Dutch. It was Dutch. That was what had been familiar. Arthur went limp, dropping to his knees next to Dutch and his horse. Hands grabbed him back up and Arthur glanced around. John was pressed up close to his side, supporting his weight and trying to get him up on the horse. Behind him Charles was doing the same, all the while managing to avoid Arthur's ragged back, pushing on his backside and his thighs instead. Dutch reached under his arms to pull and Arthur groaned at the motion, feeling a heave of bile rise in his throat. He spat it out, but missed the floor and got the horse instead. The need to say sorry sprang up but got caught in his throat. The word would not come as he finally got on to the saddle, Dutch sitting behind it. 

"Here," John handed up a bed roll and Dutch wrapped it around his naked torso. 

"Time to go home," said Dutch, urging them forward, the sound of John and Charles riding along behind them. 

\---------------------

John and Charles surged past Dutch and Arthur as they neared camp. Stopping their horses in a hurry they both leapt down to be there when Dutch arrived, to stop Arthur from falling off the horse, to carry him with as much grace and care as they could to his cot. Arthur was vaguely aware of instructions being yelled out, of water being fetched, of being lain out on his front while the bed roll was taken from him and hands gently roamed his back. Someone was doing something with his wrists, something wet and slippery was rubbed on them and they were bound with bandages. At the feeling of the bindings being applied Arthur lurched himself up and vomited more bile on to the floor next to his cot. He dropped on to his side facing down the concerned onlookers and curled in, cradling his wrists to his stomach, watching them warily, uneasily. 

Miss Grimshaw moved towards him, more bandages in her hands but was stopped by a hand on her shoulder. 

"He's not ready," Dutch told her quietly. 

Arthur stayed where he was, eyes flicking from person to person, shaking and feeling sick. A blanket was laid on top of him and he flinched. 

"So you don't get cold," Arthur looked up and saw John. Tears of gratitude pricked at his eyes as everyone backed away. "Anything else you need you just yell." 

Arthur thought he had yelled enough to last him forever. 


	6. Chapter 6

Arthur lay on his side, scratching at the bandages on his wrists and watching the camp from his open tent. Food and water had been brought to him but he had left them untouched on the floor. He only moved to relieve himself when everyone else was in bed. Occasional glances from people made him burn with shame. Shame at having been caught. Shame at having to be rescued. Shame at being so very broken.

He could see Dutch hesitantly making his way over, passing under the shadow of a tree as he did so. It was definitely Dutch who had started walking his way. It was definitely his tent that he lay in. But stepping out from under the shadow, all Arthur could see was Colm. He felt his chest constrict, his heartbeat spiked and thumped, sweat breaking out all over him. He wanted to shout out that Colm was here. That Colm was back to get him. He could not figure out why no one else was noticing this. How could the leader of the O'Driscoll gang have gotten so far into their camp. He could not force the words up from where they lodged in his throat, and his attempt to push himself up on his cot jarred his injured shoulders and raked invisible nails down his back. 

As Colm approached him he pushed himself as far back as he could, banging his back up against the wagon that provided a wall to his tent. He yelled out with the pain that it sent through him. Colm sped up at the shout and was getting closer. Too close. Arthur shut his eyes and held his arms out in front of him, palms up in something between surrender and self defence. He felt the cot dip as Colm sat next to him. Arthur kept his hands out, pressed his wrists together and waited to be bound again. 

"It's me son," Colm said. Arthur shook his head, kept his eyes shut and his wrists together. "It's me. It's Dutch. Put your hands down." Arthur opened his eyes and silently shook his head again.

"I just wanted to check on you. Make sure you're okay. Everyone here cares about you, you have to know that. You just relax." Arthur hated it but he could feel tears welling, he felt them drip down his cheeks. He did not want to relax, did not want to have to sit on that chair with that rope again. A yell from across the camp had them both look up and Arthur heard a sigh. "I'll see you later son." Colm got up and walked away from him. Blinking back the tears Arthur lay back down on his side and watched as he realised that Dutch was walking away from him.

\-----------------------

"It's been a week Dutch," Arthur woke to the sound of John talking. "He still ain't speaking and he won't let anyone clean him up."

"I know John." Arthur heard Dutch sigh. "You've seen his back, his wrists, the bruises and everything else but we don't know what they really did to him."

"I know how I found him, tied up like that. And I saw the bath tub. " There was a long silence. "I know they treated him bad but if we don't get a good look at him and clean him up then it might get infected."

"He's back John, he will be fine. It won't be for nothing that we got him back."

Arthur shut his eyes and listened to them. Listened to the sound of the camp beyond and to the gentle rustle of his tent in the breeze. He became gradually aware that something felt different. That someone was staring at him. He blinked his eyes open and was confronted by the sight of Jack Marston's eyes and nose peering out from above a book which he held open, inches away from Arthur's nose. 

"It's an elephant!" said Jack, poking a finger out from behind the book to tap the picture. Arthur blinked at him. "Uncle Hosea said I could borrow it. I'd like an elephant." Jack lowered the book and narrowed one eye at Arthur. "You're real mucky," he said and pulled his hand back up into the cuff of his sleeve, dipping it in Arthur's water cup then rubbing at his face with it. He observed his handiwork with satisfaction then looked at his cuff. "Momma's gonna kill me!" he said, a look of conspiratorial mock horror on his face. Suddenly Jack pushed a finger over Arthur's lips. "Shhhh," he said before running off with his book in his hand. 

Arthur smiled after him. Then laughed to himself, shaking his head.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's a short chapter...but Jack Marston is a mini super hero!


	7. Chapter 7

The nights were the worst. Arthur had enjoyed what amounted to no more than a single minute in Jack's company, though the smile it brought had pulled uncomfortably where he'd been gagged for so long, even though the laugh had caught up in his throat and barely made it past his lips. But when the night came after that he'd suffered through dreams of being told how mucky he was and being submerged in cold water and held there.

When he'd clawed his way to consciousness it had still been dark. Only just but dark all the same. Jack was right about him being mucky and he knew it. Rising from his cot he left his tent, looking around constantly to make sure he was alone. He headed for the barrel full of water that they used for washing and touched his palm to the surface of it. Cold. It was very cold. No sun yet to warm it. He wiped his wet hand over his face, placing his index finger across his mouth, one corner to the other and bit down on it. That felt more comfortable in ways that he did not know how to deal with. Keeping a firm bite down on that finger he submerged his head in the barrel and held it there, finger gagging his mouth, his other hand fisted and pressed into the small of his back. He stayed there until his throat hurt. Until his chest began to pound and ache. Until the fist at his back shook with the decreasing oxygen in his blood stream. Until his knees twitched of their own accord and hit the barrel, knocking it and sloshing the water over the rim. 

He lurched up and away from the barrel, hand dropping from his mouth, the other unfisting itself, gasping in breath upon breath. A hand on his shoulder had him curling in on himself, wanting to be as small as possible. 

"Jack needed to take a leak," said John, hand still on Arthur's shoulder. "My turn to watch him. Need some more sleep?" Arthur looked at him, looked for a long time to make sure he was definitely John, before nodding and letting John walk him back to his own tent. 

"Arthur, we really need to get a look at your back and wrists today. Please. We don't want them getting infected and now you've washed your face, well, look maybe we can get the rest done." Arthur lay down and looked up at John. He felt an uncomfortable twist in his understanding. John, he was fairly sure, was giving him an out by calling what he'd just seen simply washing. But not getting infected? He'd be no fun dead. He'd been told that before. He did not know what fun he could possibly supply them with here. Not anymore. He closed his eyes and heard John sigh. He kept them closed. He waited for John to go. He awoke again to see the sun was full risen. 

\--------------------

"Son?" Arthur heard Dutch announce his arrival before he stepped into the tent, trying to give him warning. Trying not to spook him. Like being a god damned horse. Horses got whipped by bad owners. Bad horses got whipped worse. Arthur shuddered and a groan escaped him before he could stop it.

"Miss Grimshaw and I have come to check you over son," Arthur cast a glance around them as they stood in front of his cot, hoping to see John or Jack trailing along behind them. John had found him. Jack had made him smile. John had seen him. They had never turned into Colm in the shade of a tree. 

"Mr Morgan," Miss Grimshaw advanced a couple of steps. "How's about we start small. Just your wrists this morning." Arthur pushed himself up, sitting felt better than lying prone looking up at her. "Good! " she exclaimed, taking his hands in hers before he was ready. He fought against the urge to fight back as she began to untie the old bandages. He could feel tears gathering and he looked down at his lap. His wrists felt cold and naked without anything on them. He felt as though he was untethered and not grounded and it made him light headed. He could not tell if it was relief or panic and the emotions chased each other down in his mind.

He could hear Miss Grimshaw telling Dutch that everything looked fine. That she would put clean dressings on and then hopefully they could come off in a day or two. Arthur hitched a sob in with a rushed breath. Relief and panic fought harder against one another. The cot dipped as Dutch sat next to him to help steady each arm while the bandages were done. 

"Mr Morgan I need you to keep your hands apart," Arthur looked at Miss Grimshaw and looked at his hands, wrists pressed together waiting to be tied up. He looked at Dutch who was gently trying to prise them apart. Arthur pulled them back together. "Please Mr Morgan," she said with a touch more force, trying to help Dutch separate his hands. Arthur kept them held tightly together. "Dutch?" Miss Grimshaw looked for guidance and Dutch looked woefully unsure.

"Arthur, please now. Try. For me," said Dutch. Arthur shook his head and looked out of the tent, the familiar shape of John was just out of reach, Jack holding his hand and skipping beside him. He wanted to shout for him, for them. The noise caught up with a sob in his throat, drawing their attention to his tent. 

"Uncle Arthur! " Jack called out, hand out of John's before he could stop him and in the tent like a flash. "Does that hurt? " he asked, pointing at Arthur's wrists then using his own sleeve to wipe at Arthur's eyes. "Momma says least said soonest mended so don't worry." Jack sat himself down on Arthur's other side, hands holding the edge off the cot and legs swinging easily. Arthur nodded at his words and felt a small smile pull at his mouth again. 

"Sorry," said John, sweeping Jack up and off the cot. Arthur shrugged as John sent Jack on his way to find mischief elsewhere. "How you doing brother?"

"We need to dress his wrists but, " Miss Grimshaw gestured to Arthur's hands which he still kept clasped together, Dutch still trying to get them apart. John knelt in front of Arthur, moving Miss Grimshaw across a little. He took Arthur's hands in one of his own and pressed them together. He took a length of bandage and draped it over Arthur's wrists, pulling it gently around beneath them and back over the top. 

"This what you need right now?" he asked. Arthur looked at him and nodded. "Well okay then," said John. Dutch let go and Miss Grimshaw stood. 

"We got you Arthur. We got you."

Arthur bent forward and pressed his burning eyes on to John's shoulder, enough to press the tears away.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So the saying 'see you later alligator'. My research told me it originated in 1850s UK and 1950s USA. So I have put it in 1890s West frontier!

Arthur had spent a drizzly day staring out from his tent and squeezing hard at the new bandages that John had gently applied to his wrists. He had finished off what Arthur could not bear for Miss Grimshaw to do. A poor excuse for a camp fire was attempting to burn while no one tended to it and hardly anyone came or went.

He could not figure it out. Was he lonely or alone? Was he in a state of panic or was it the dizzying idea of relief that had him constantly on edge? His back itched and pulled and called his attention to it. He reached behind and pushed his fists into his lower back, flexing the bandages and applying pressure by default of his movements. He was still avoiding letting anyone look at his back, although with no burning fever and no bad smell he was certain that the risk of infection had passed days ago. He did not want to bare his back to anyone. It felt too open, too vulnerable. The last time he had let his back be turned to someone they had whipped him to within an inch of his life. The idea of someone even looking at it made his scarred and scabbed skin crawl. 

He sat on his cot and pressed his back to the side of the wagon behind him, letting the rub of it sting at him, scratching an itch that was more metaphorical than physical. It felt right in ways he knew were wrong. But his silence was golden, worth it's weight in fact in gold to him because he did not have the words to describe why he needed to repeat these things to himself. Why he needed to harness memories of what had been done to him. And far from even beginning to describe the why of the action there was the why of the need for the action. 

Arthur pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes and took a deep breath in. It was too much to think about. He thought that he hated that the weather was keeping people in their tents at the same as he realised that he was missing watching the day to day of the camp and his family. He rubbed at his eyes and face and leant away from the wagon, away from the stinging of the wagon at his back and over the side of the cot, fumbling around beneath it until his fingers caught at the handle of his satchel. He pulled it out from where it had been left, forgotten about after it was stowed there when he'd been brought back. 

_Bring that satchel._

_Forget the guns._

_Good._

_Bring that satchel. Bring that satchel._

Arthur grasped at the satchel, white knuckled and heavy breathing. His shoulders ached with the memory of rescue, with the weight of salvation. He felt sick, the rise of it making his mouth water. He gagged his mouth with his finger, corner to corner again, and forced the feeling down. Keep the vomit back and away from the gag. He breathed in and out, in and out, chest going from heaving to rising to calm as he kept hold of his satchel in one hand and his mouth biting down on the other. 

With his breathing coming easier he eased up biting down on his finger and let his hand fall from his mouth. He was shaking as he fumbled through his satchel, grabbing out his journal and opening it, the pencil tucked in it rolling on to his lap. Finding a blank page, he pushed his back to the wagon again and touched the pencil down to the paper. It was unsteady but he pushed on, rendering an image of their camp on to the page. Tents sprang up, grass and weeds. A camp fire, a pot, a guitar. He added hitching posts and wagons. He put details in. A curl of smoke from the fire, a wisp of cloud in the sky. 

Then he added in his family. Hosea sat reading, John smoking, Abigail with a cup of coffee, Pearson near the pot. He drew Dutch and was relieved when it looked like him and not Colm.

He was not shaking at all by the time he finished the picture off by placing Jack riding high upon an elephant back just near the edge of the camp. 

He was smiling by the time he had ripped out the page and walked across camp to slide it under the canvas door of John's tent. 

He was dreamlessly asleep not five minutes after laying back down in his own tent.

\-----------------------

Early evening brought with it the briefest appearance of the sun and the end of the drizzle. Arthur sat on his cot and watched as people began to move about the camp again, as the scene in front of him breathed air back into itself. The fire was stoked and began to burn bigger and brighter which drew folk to it like so many moths. He found it comforting to watch, content to remain outside of it and observe, almost as though he could learn how to join them again if he just studied them for long enough.

"Arthur," John stuck his head around the tied back canvas, which was swiftly followed by a hand, beer bottles with their necks clutched between his fingers. Arthur shifted across on his cot and John sat down next to him, handing one of the bottles over, keeping one for himself and putting two more on the table next to the cot. They drank slowly, watching everyone eating bowls of stew. 

"So," said John. "A thought crossed my mind today." He looked at Arthur and deepened his voice "Did it have a lonely journey Marston?" Arthur could not help but smile at that. John had his sarcasm down to a tee. "Very lonely. Took ages to get where it was going." They both took a mouthful of beer, John setting his down and getting up and leaning out of the tent. 

"Jack!" He called out. "Get over here. Got work for you to do!" Jack looked up from his spot by the fire, easily abandoning his dish of stew to join then in Arthur's tent. 

"What work is it? It's it men's work? Real men's work?" asked Jack, looking from John to Arthur and back again. 

"Yeah it's real men's work," John told him. "Now sit up there by your uncle Arthur." Jack scrambled up on to the cot on Arthur's other side and waited.

"Okay," John said, reaching across and taking Arthur's beer to put it on the table along with his own. "You gotta get some air on them wrists of yours. Heal them up good and proper." Arthur shifted uncomfortably. "I know, I got it figured that you need, well, pressure I guess," Arthur was caught up in John's monologue, watching his face as he spoke. "So my slow lonely thought got it all worked out." Arthur felt a warm pressure on one of his wrists and looked down to see John's hand holding and pressing firmly on his exposed skin. His other wrist was bare, rope burns and grazed skin staring back at him. "Jack, hold on to your uncle Arthur's wrist and squeeze it well now." Jack grasped Arthur's wrist in both of his hands and pressed down with them.

"Are you sure this is real men's work?" Jack asked. 

"Yeah I'm sure!" said John. Arthur looked down at all of their hands, a pressure that felt safe and warm. Comforting in a way that he was able to realise felt right while still letting him feel secure. Next to him Jack swung his legs and puffed his cheeks out.

"Can I go read now?" Jack said, letting go of Arthur's hand. Arthur smiled, missing the contact instantly but not in a way that ached and hurt and pulled. Relief won over panic for the first time in a long time and he reached across to ruffle Jack's hair. 

John watched Arthur's reaction and nodded to himself. "Go on, get," he said to Jack, smiling as he hopped off the cot and ran off. "He'd rather spend all his time with his head in a book." he said, as Jack suddenly reappeared.

"Thank you for my picture!" he said, turning and running back off calling over his shoulder as he went, "See you later Arthurgator!" 

"In a while Jackodile," Arthur said, so low and croaky, voice unused for so long, the words out before Arthur's mind could catch up with them. 

"Knew you was in there somewhere Morgan," whispered John, letting go of Arthur's wrist and picking up his beer, handing Arthur's over as well. "It's going to be a long road huh?" Arthur nodded and downed the rest of his beer as John stood. "I'll see you tomorrow," said John, going back to the camp fire with a wave. 


	9. Chapter 9

Arthur woke to the sounds of breakfast and birdsong. He stretched on his cot and let the familiar feeling of pulling tug at the wounds on his back. He shuffled around a little to press his back down, like pushing at a bruise to make sure it still hurt, and was pleased to discover that this morning relief was still able to fight back against panic once again. As far as he was concerned panic could go back to whatever hole it had crawled out of and stay there for good. Relief did not force him to repeat actions that made him want to vomit, did not make him act things out that would only hurt him, did not make Colm appear in places he had no right to be. 

He pushed himself up and rubbed at his wrists. Panic nudged at him, made its presence known. He shut his eyes, breathed in the smell of cooking, gripped at his wrists and rode the feeling out. He was not tied and bound. He would never be tied and bound again. Eyes still shut he stood up and stumbled slightly in the self imposed darkness. With every intention of getting himself breakfast for the first time since he'd been captured he could suddenly feel the noose around his neck again, waiting to catch him up if his feet were unsteady. And if that rope gave out it's hold on him there was the floor and laughter, too much laughter, eyes on him mocking and brutal.

He stumbled another foot forward, an embarrassed whimper catching in his throat at the fear of relief slipping through his fingers, at the loss of control when he'd been so ready to move and be with his family, his people. He felt hands, one on each shoulder holding him up and still, capable hands, not pushing or hurting. 

"I don't wanna fall," he whispered. "I can't fall."

"Ain't gonna fall," he heard John say quietly. "Won't let you." Arthur opened his eyes, meet John's gaze. Nodded. "You wanna come sit? " John asked, waving a hand in the direction of the camp fire. Arthur could see people there. Dutch, Hosea, Abigail and Jack. Miss Grimshaw, Pearson, Charles. A few others were milling around. Tilly, Javier. Nearly all there, lots of people. He watched them, caught up in the battle between too many people and safety in numbers before deciding that safety was the best option. Panic slunk back and relief surged forward.

"Sure," he said, feeling secure with John by his side as he crossed the space between his tent and the fire, broad daylight weighing down on him. He accepted a dish of bacon and cornbread from Pearson with a nod and sat next to John on a log to eat. His friends greeted him nervously, warily, unsure of what should be said to someone who had been through what he had been through. 

He felt caught up in knots. Relief fighting panic, too many people or safety in numbers, nervous in the dark but exposed in the day. Unsettled and shaken but home and healing. Wanting company but jumping at every noise, every touch. His head ached with the way his thoughts twisted themself around. 

"Time Arthur," he looked up and found Hosea sitting on his other side. "You take all the time you need. You don't have to do anything that doesn't feel right you know. No one is going to make you move at any speed that's too fast for you." Arthur chewed on his bottom lip and nodded. "I can't pretend to know what you must be feeling but I do know one thing. Whatever you're feeling is right, so let yourself feel it. You'll get where you're going soon enough." Arthur felt tears prick at his eyes, gathering but not falling as he looked at Hosea. Hosea reached a hand to him, around the back of his neck to pull Arthur's head to his lean on to his shoulder just like he had done when Arthur had been fourteen and a confused teenager in an outlaws world in need of reassurance. Hosea let him go, nudged him upright and left him to it. Just the right amount of intrusion and words. Never a feast but never a famine.

Turning his attention to his food he ate what he could manage, giving what was left to Jack who had had a hopeful eye on his dish since he had sat down. 

"They ain't been feedin' you?" Arthur said to him, handing the dish over. He suddenly doubled over, like he had taken a punch to the stomach. He could hear Colm taunting him about food, about starving, about not feeding him. The dry taste of bread being forced into his mouth struck at him. He knew people were watching him, he mentally flailed for relief, must have flung a hand out in a physical manifestation only to have a tin cup of coffee placed in it, held there briefly to make sure he had it and would not drop it. He sat slowly up again, a silent camp of people looking at him like he was broken. He was broken. They knew it. He knew it. Feel it, he thought to himself, whatever it is is right. He chased down Hosea's words of wisdom and struck gold. He took a mouthful of coffee and let truth slide from him, from the darker corners of his mind to the people he trusted most.

"They didn't feed me great either," he said. There was nodding and mumbling and apologies on his behalf. He knew they were trying, any awkwardness would wear off eventually. But in the mean time they would have to wade through it all together. He stood and reached down to pick up dishes and spoons to wash out ready for the next meal. No one tried to stop him and he was grateful. He did not want to be stopped, did not want to be put on the position of being told and did not want to have to put others in the position of him telling them that he did not want their sympathy. He did wonder if Dutch had told them how to treat him, or if they just knew. 

Rinsing the dishes and spoons, he shook the water off each one and set them to dry in the sun, wiping off his hands with a spare rag. He absentmindedly wound the cloth around his wrists one at a time, the scratching sensation of it comforting as it wrapped around each one. He walked back to his tent, nodding at people as he went, grumbling out the odd hello here and there. Reaching for his satchel he picked through it until he found what he had been looking for. He took his bandana out and unfolded it, a large square of cloth. Carefully he folded it in half into a triangle then folded it down and down in a long line right to the tip of the triangle. Picking it up he held it so it would not unravel then headed across camp to Dutch's tent.

Dutch looked up as he approached. Standing to greet him Dutch pulled him in, one arm around him, squeezing and cajoling, guiding him to sit on the cot. 

"What's that you've got there son?" he asked Arthur. Arthur held it up to show him. Dutch looked at the bandana, unsure. It was hard to see him unsure when Arthur wanted certainty. 

"Can you help me?" Arthur asked him, so quietly. Arthur thought they might have been his first words to Dutch in a while. Could not recall when he had last spoken to him. Dutch looked at him, a moment stretching itself out before the penny rolled slowly into place instead of dropping. 

"You need that around your wrist?" asked Dutch. Arthur nodded and Dutch dropped to his knees in front of Arthur, taking the bandana off him. For a horrible moment Arthur thought Dutch was going to deny him, was going to assume he knew what was best. But then he took Arthur's hand in his and wrapped the bandana tightly and one wrist, tying it off. He sat back on his heels, Arthur's hand still in his. "Okay?" he asked. 

"I..." Arthur stuttered over the word. Came to halt. 

"Go on," Dutch told him, a squeeze of his hand.

"I only got one."

Dutch stood, letting go of Arthur and opened a chest on a table. A moment of scrabbling around and Dutch was back with his own bandana in hand. Much like Arthur had done he opened then folded it, turning it into a long strip of material. He took Arthur's other hand in his and wrapped the second bandana around, tying it firmly in place. 

"Okay?" Dutch asked him as he watched Arthur flex against his new accessories. 

"Sure," said Arthur, standing up, readying to leave. 

"You come here anytime you need son, anytime for anything, " said Dutch. Arthur nodded his gratitude and was rewarded with a firm hand on one shoulder, a squeeze down and then left to go on his way. He stepped out and across the camp, worn out by not much at all and aching for his cot. John caught up with him about half way there. 

"That your new thing? " he asked Arthur, nodding down towards Arthur's wrists. "A hook. Every good outlaw needs one you know." Arthur huffed out a laugh. 

"'Wrists' Morgan," he said. 

"Sure got a ring to it," John said, before veering off to his own tent. Arthur made his way to his cot and sat, stretched and noticed tiredly that panic was caught in its corner, held at bay by the bright light of relief as he lay down to let sleep help heal him.


	10. Chapter 10

Without thinking back to check on it, Arthur realised that he had forgotten how long he had been back at camp for. The mental tally of days since his rescue had not surfaced today, and he realised that it had not surfaced the day before either. Another victory for relief, another kick in the teeth for panic.

He flexed his wrists wrapped up in their bandanas in what had become a habit of comfort. They made him feel not tied by Colm, but tied instead to his family, to John and Jack, to Dutch. To Hosea. To a salvation that he gradually felt less and less ashamed of. The pull and ache of his back was diminished to the point of almost nothing. Some scars could still be stretched out to the point of discomfort, other scars had healed into numb patches of wrinkled skin, too damaged to feel anything again. 

With the realisation that he no longer knew how long he had been back for came the realisation that washing just his face, hidden away from everyone in the still dark of a too early morning was no longer going to be enough. He waited until the sun was high in the sky, until people were everywhere, until he felt that there would be enough eyes on the lookout while he would be at his most vulnerable. 

Gathering up soap and an old sheet to dry down with he approached John, finding him idling at a table balancing dominoes end on end and cussing when they fell. Arthur cleared his throat, words still not as easy as they had been before.

"Hey Arthur," he said, nodding at his bathing kit. "Not a moment too soon there. Reckon they can smell you in Rhodes."

"You have actually seen your hair right?" Arthur parried back. "Or can't you find it under all that grease?"

"Hey I don't mind getting it all out and scrubbing up right next to you Morgan!" said John, standing up. "Seriously though, I need to set a watch down near the water, mind if I walk with you? " 

"Long as you stay fully clothed," said Arthur. He was grateful to John in ways that he could only ever hope to repay one day. For all that he and John could make fun of one another, John knew what Arthur needed and gave it to him with a subtlety that would have surprised many people. 

"Nah, reckon if I do a watch naked ain't no one gonna come bothering us," said John with a smile as they crossed the camp together and walked out to the lake near by. John veered away to set up a pattern of walking a watch and left Arthur to walk the rest of the way to the waters edge on his own. 

Arthur set down his sheet and his soap, pulling each item of clothing off one at a time, folding neatly as he went. He moved slowly, carefully, afraid that too much noise and rushing would make panic stir from the dark corner that he had battled it down in to. Arthur slowly edged himself to the water, only his feet in it up to the ankles as he turned his back on the lake in front of him. He faced the land, covered himself with his hands, and stood, letting the feeling of uncomfortable exposure and vulnerability settle over him. It happened in the same way that it used to when he was a child, hand or foot poking out of the covers of his bed, risking it for as long as he could hold out, until he was certain that if he did not snatch them back in then a monster would surely grab at them from under his bed and pull him down. 

It was cold, the movement of his toes kicking up silt and muddying the waters making them look filthy. He watched the swirl of the filth and backed a little further, a little deeper in, water to his calfs then his knees. He could feel his legs shaking, not just cold but panic was crawling out to get him. He dropped to his knees, his nakedness hidden but dirty, he felt the wave of nausea force itself up his throat. With the panic and nausea came a rush of bitter disappointment that all of his successes were being washed away in the silt and mud, were being forced under like he had been in that god forsaken basement. He jammed his finger across his mouth in a twisted attempt to calm himself again but he was too late in getting there, vomiting hard against his hand and heaving it out into the water. His vision swam as his eyes watered and he sucked in air too quickly, in and out, breathing, not drowning. 

A splashing getting quickly closer brought his attention back, the familiar sight of John, knee deep in water and reaching for him. Arthur looked up at him and reached for John's outstretched hand, letting himself be pulled up and doubtless more filthy than when he had started. With the sheet in his other hand he passed it to Arthur to wrap around himself, turning from him to let him gather himself with as much privacy as he could. Arthur covered himself, collected himself and calmed with the presence of John so near by. 

"You ain't going back like this," said John, gathering up the neat pile of clothes. "Come on, let's sit for a bit." Arthur nodded by way of reply and let John lead the way, following along behind him, too stunned, too disappointed in himself for much else. John walked up the shingle and mud that surrounded the water, leading Arthur to the shade of the tree line where he sat down, back against a tree trunk and motioned for Arthur to join him. Arthur sat and watched John pick through his clothes until he found the bandanas, holding one out too which Arthur gave up his wrist, repeating the motion with the next one. He flexed them the same way that he always did. 

"They tight enough?" John asked. 

"Yeah," mumbled Arthur, head down and still wrapped up in a sheet. He scratched at the back of his neck, pulling a shaky breath in and releasing it in a sigh. "Reckon they might have broken me," he muttered towards the ground. 

"What happened Arthur?" asked John, the question that everyone wondered about, the question that no one had been brave enough to ask. The question that Arthur knew would be asked eventually. He scratched at his neck again, knees drawn up and face looking down at them, as though curling away and in on himself could make it any easier to find the words the had been missing for so long. 

"I was hunting," said Arthur. "Safe territory, no problems. But then they found me, caught me off guard and took me back to see Colm." He paused and turned his head to look at John, who gave him a small smile. Not a look of sympathy, not an encouragement to continue, but simply to let Arthur know that he could stop or continue as he saw fit. Arthur drew in another deep breath, turning back to face his knees, to face the ground. 

"They tied my hands behind my back, gagged me, covered my head and knocked me out cold. Next thing I know I'm being asked if I can stand then I'm shoved out of some basement, still covered up and told to stand up on something." He turned his head away from John and spat on the floor, his mouth filling with saliva that he hoped was not going to mean that he would be sick again.

"I stood, then there's a noose around my neck and they said not to fall. Damnit John I must have been there two, maybe three days," he looked at John, needed to see him and ground himself with familiarity and security, to not let panic over reach itself.

"You fall?" asked John. 

"Yeah," said Arthur, ending with a sigh, with a slumping of the shoulders. "Fell asleep, fell off. Scared myself stupid hanging there, until someone set me back up in place and I stood there longer. Then they let me down. Colm, he uncovers my head and tells everyone that he'll repay their loyalty to him taking all their mistakes out on me. Hands untied, shirt off, hands tied again in front then..." Arthur stopped and hunched over as his stomach tensed and heaved.

"What do you need?" John asked him once his body had calmed down, once he was able to breath again. 

"I need to tell you," whispered Arthur, so quiet, so very low. "I just hate how it sounds. I hate the words. I hate having a problem that won't go away at the wrong end of a gun."

"Well, I've got all day. Reckon you do too. So I say let's stay here, let those words come out when they do and take it from there."

Arthur blinked at the tears that were gathering, let them drop on to his knees as he nodded. 

"Got your back brother," said John. 

"Sure do," Arthur said.


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Woops! This chapter was meant to be longer but my little one woke up crying and I tapped to post instead of preview. So now it's up it may as well stay up! So, sorry it's a bit short.
> 
> Edited to add...I would like to say a huge thank you. Getting to the point where Arthur was ready to share his story was hard to write and to make it believable. I've had some wonderful feedback from you lovely people so again, thanks!

At Arthur's request John left him sitting against the tree and came back with his satchel. Arthur had used the time alone to get dressed, feeling more confident, more able that way.

"There you go," said John, sitting down beside him, one leg tucked under the other, ready to stay there for as long as Arthur needed him to.

"Thank you," Arthur said. He opened the satchel and took out his journal, opening it to let it fall on the page after the one that he had torn out for Jack. The he picked up the pencil from the inside of the spine and played with it, across his fingers, over and under, nervous and fidgeting. "See, here's what they had after the noose, with my hands in front."

John watched as Arthur began to sketch out what looked like the letter A. Arthur added details to it, the hook at the top, the ropes that waited at the bottom. He fleshed it out, hand working quicker now, a whip coiled on the floor. A dead rabbit, some spilled food. He filled the space rapidly, the lines becoming rushed. He sketched the outline of a man on the frame, slashed harsh lines across the man's back with firm pencil strokes, angry movements with his fingers and his brow furrowed. With the final addition of a pile of vomit on the floor and a bucket Arthur ripped the page from the journal and let it fall, beginning another drawing on the next page. The plan of a room emerged from the pencil at his finger tips. A bed on one side, a bath in the middle. John recognised the layout as the room in which he had found Arthur.

Arthur huffed out an angry noise, almost a grunt at the work that he was producing. John could see a slight sheen of sweat on Arthur's brow, how hard he was concentrating as that page joined the first on the floor. Another picture on another page showed another rough outline, human in shape but faceless save for a gag across where the mouth should be. This figure sat on a chair, hands behind it's back being pulled up by a rope. The pencil marks became more hurried, more urgent, more frustrated until Arthur suddenly dropped it, ripped the page out, and dropped that too. He let his head tip backwards to meet the tree trunk behind him, eyes shut. The rapid rise and fall of his chest slowed to a more steady pace, a slower rhythm. 

Arthur rested like that for a few minutes, comfortable with the knowledge that John was beside him. Comfortable enough to begin to drift away into a light sleep, tired out but satisfied with the catharsis of his efforts. It was as though each mark he made with the pencil lifted some of the weight, undid some of the hurt, unbroke some tiny little part of himself. The torn out pages scattered to his side, like memories that he was trying to quit. 

It was the smell of cigarette smoke that woke him in the end. He tilted his head to one side, finding John just where he had been all along, peacefully smoking, holding out the cigarette to Arthur when he noticed that he was being watched. Arthur took it and kept it, finished it because John had already lit another. Arthur picked up the pages and put them in order, each event as it had happened, John watching his hands as they shuffled the pages into a tidy pile. 

"So," began Arthur. "Colm whipped me for a shit rabbit pelt, " he pointed out the frame, and the rabbit. "Then some bastard takes me to the basement and almost drowns me in the tub. Something about not wanting me bleeding out and attracting animals." He shifted the paper, pointed at the bath tub. "Never let me take that damned gag out. Always had my hands behind my back unless they was whipping me. " 

John made a noise, a strangled kind of grunt as Arthur continued. 

"Colm kept finding reasons," he pointed to the spilled food. "Not enough breakfast for people, so that's something else to take out on me. And I couldn't help it John, I puked up into that gag and almost choked myself on it. They cut it off, so I didn't die, then put a new one in. Then it's back to the tub, try not to drown, try not to break."

John kept quiet, guessing that if it needed to come out he did not want to be the one to stop it. The words Arthur was saying were firing up every nerve, making him ache to hurt Colm. He waited for Arthur to continue. 

"I know I cried at some point, around that damned gag. I hated that. I hated doing that. Colm had someone come down and tie me up," he shuffled through the pages to the one of a man on a chair. "Like that, how you found me. Any parts that weren't numb were hurting. Last time he cut the gag off was to force some bread into my mouth then he put a new one on and left." Arthur paused. He was quiet for a very long time. John watched him, watched as he tilted his head back against the tree again. John was angry but he realised that for the first time in weeks Arthur had a little peace about him, at the edge of his features. And he knew that if transferring some of his anger and his fears and his terror on to John was what gave him that peace then he would gladly take it. 

"Arthur," whispered John, in case he had gone back to sleep. Arthur hummed in response. "Can I take your drawings to Hosea and Dutch? You don't need to talk about it, or even be there. I can do it, then they'll understand." 

"Think I'd like that," said Arthur. 

"And one other thing before I take you back for, you guessed it, another stew?" Arthur nodded. "Me and you are going to take you somewhere for a hot bath tomorrow. No more dunking in cold water."

Arthur smiled as John stood up, pushing himself up next to him. 

"Sure. Sounds good."


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I read back through and discovered some horrifying typos!!! All sorted now. Sorry!

Arthur and John made their way back to the camp, looking relaxed. Arthur considered that actually he really did feel relaxed for once. John had folded up the drawings that Arthur had made and had them held tightly in his hand, to make sure that no one else should see anything. As John made to walk to Dutch's tent Arthur cleared his throat to get his attention, a decision already made and needing to be spoken.

"John, can we go sort that hot bath out now?" asked Arthur.

"What, and miss out on Pearson's world famous stew?" said John, smiling at the prospect of food in a town saloon. "Sounds fine to me." He gestured at Arthur with the papers he was still holding. "What you want me to do with this? Save it for tomorrow?"

"Bring Dutch and Hosea with us I reckon," said Arthur. "I think I'd feel better..." he trailed off, hand reaching up to scratch at the back of his neck and shuffling his feet a little. John nodded and reached out to squeeze Arthurs shoulder.

"I got you," he said. "Safety in numbers huh?" Arthur simply nodded. He was glad that he did not have to put it in words, glad that John would know that he needed every door to be watched if he was to close himself in a room and get totally naked. If he was to immerse himself in water and not feel like he was drowning. If he was to get through something for once without being sick and disappointing himself yet again.

"I ain't got a horse John," said Arthur. "So..."

"I'll get it sorted, reckon Lenny won't mind sharing. That kid thinks the world of you I reckon."

"He's a good man," said Arthur, trying not to think of all of the things he did not have. He did not have a horse. Nor his guns. He did not have his hat anymore, no idea where that went. He did not have comfort or peace of mind. He did not know what to do and he had no certainty, no ability to shrug his way through it and know that all would work out in the end. He supposed he must have been listening to something that John was saying as he watched him walk away towards Dutch's tent and calling out to Hosea as he went. Arthur stood still, watching as Hosea glanced over to him, as John went into the tent. Watching as the minutes ticked by and Dutch emerged, hand on John's shoulder and a shout of some words in Arthur's direction. It made his feet move towards them as it occured to him that this was the first time that he was leaving camp since he had come back to them all. He shuffled awkwardly over, gripping at his bound wrists, testing the bandanas and making sure they were tight.

"Okay?" John muttered low at him when he got close enough. Arthur flexed his wrists and nodded by way of reply. He did not trust himself to words, afraid that he would end up spitting up bile and saliva, but he could not bring himself to show Dutch and Hosea how he had started to hold that feeling back. He was sure that they did not miss the stiff way that he mounted Lenny's horse. The horse certainly did not miss it. She huffed and stomped about a bit as he settled in the saddle as best he could. A poor attempt by his own admission, tense and stiff in the back and legs. He let the horse dance below him, turn in a slow circle as John, Dutch, and Hosea mounted their horses around him. he gripped with his thighs, trying for the same old ease that had come from riding his old horses, he tried to channel it through his body and down his arms to the reins. The horse huffed a little but let it go, a toss of the head and she said no more about it.

They moved out en masse, heading for Valentine being the closest town, not wanting to have to camp out on the way there or back. Any O'Driscolls that had hung around there had been sent scurrying from the area some time ago, or they had been killed for not doing so. It occured to Arthur that maybe that had been part of the reason for the mess that he was in now. He let the ride pass him by in a prolonged attempt at calm, at gaining the trust of the horse that he had been kindly leant. He let conversation flow past him, words on the wind between his three companions, and if they were involving him then they were content to let his silence pass, asking him questions of no importance that needed no answers anyway. 

They skirted the edge of the town, eyes scanning and ears listening, all relieved to find no trace of trouble anywhere. Keeping to the edges, they passed the local butchers stall and hitched up just around the corner, outside the hotel. Arthur jumped down from the saddle easily, surprising himself and making him bark out a laugh. The mindless chatter and landscape had weaved its magic on him and he had relaxed without even knowing it. 

"I'll go sort out a bath," Dutch announced, taking the lead with everyone else happy to let him. They let him go ahead into the hotel and get everything prepared, following slowly along behind. Dutch was sat in a chair in the corner, looking down the corridor to the bath room, a perfect spot to look for any issues and more seats so that someone else could watch the stairs and another person could watch the door. Hosea was busy talking the hotel owner into providing them with a bottle of whiskey while John sat down with Dutch , watching Arthur head on into the bath room, smiling to himself as the girl outside the door was refused before she had even asked if she should help with the bathing.

\---------------------------------------------

Arthur undressed, folding his clothes again neatly and placing them on a chair in the corner. Steam rose gently from the bath. It smelled clean, a fire was lit and a scrubbing brush and bottle of wine sat on a board across the bath itself. Taking a deep breath in he stepped into the water. Warm and comforting. He slipped his whole self in quicker than he ever thought he would have, leaning his head back and closing his eyes. It felt good. It actually felt good and he smiled. He laughed. He realised that he was crying as he was chuckling low, quietly and only to himself. This time it was good, it was so good. Nothing was hurting, he did not feel sick. He let the tears fall and drop from the edge of his jaw. 

\-------------------------------------------------

Hosea took his seat, bottle of whiskey in one hand and three glasses held between the fingers of the other.

"Charming the ducks off the water again I see?" Dutch laughed at him, shaking his head.

"Someone has to," said Hosea, uncorking the bottle and pouring them all a shot. They picked up their glasses, tapped them together, once on the table and downed them. Hosea refilled them for a more leisurely second drink. John sighed long, and brought the pictures out of his satchel. 

"Arthur drew a few things," he said. "Said I could show you, tell you. Think we all need to understand this thing he's got going on." He pushed the pages flat on to the table top, spreading them out and turning them so that Dutch and Hosea could see them properly. He watched their eyes scanning the images, knowing that their reactions would be close to his. Dutch hissed in a breath and John could see his hands clenching a little, trigger finger moving. Hosea closed his eyes and took a deep breath in and out.

"John?" said Hosea simply, an invite to begin.

"There's something he told me before he drew these. It's not here. They had him gagged and covered his head with his hands tied behind his back and made him stand for days with a noose around his neck. Stood up on something," he looked at them, each a little paler than before, with high spots of red on their cheeks, anger flaming below the surface. "He told me he fell off once, so they just put him back up and made him carry on standing there." John pointed to the picture of the whipping frame. "That is where they tied him up and Colm whipped him for anything anyone else did wrong. Only time his hands weren't behind his back was when he was up there. Said the only time he wasn't gagged was when he threw up and they cut it away to put a new one in and once when Colm fed him. Then he got a new one again.

"What's this one?" Hosea asked, pointing at the one of the room, the basement with the cot and the bath. Dutch seemed struck dumb.

"That's where they kept him because they told him he'd bleed and attract animals outside. Someone would near enough drown him every night in that tub. And that," said John, pointing at the picture of a man sat on the chair. "That is how he was when I got to him. Because Colm said he needed to... relax. Be ready for the next day. He needs something around his wrists now. He...well. I've seen him stop himself being sick by gagging his own mouth with his finger. he couldn't bathe in the lake because the cold was too much like that tub." He finished and rubbed his hand over his face, reaching for the bottle of whiskey and taking a long draw from it. 

"Dutch?" said Hosea quietly. 

"I will kill them," whispered Dutch, looking only at the pictures. "What they did to Annabelle. What they have done to Arthur. This is not about stealing their take. This is personal. And this ends with Colm." Hosea and John looked at each other, John nodding slightly, subtly, hardly at all. Hosea reached out and held Dutch's shoulder, making him look up from the pictures at last.

"It ends old friend. We will end it." Dutch reached for Hoseas hand on his shoulder and patted it strong and certain. 

"Go and get my boy a horse," said Dutch to John, reaching to his pockets and bringing out a folded stack of bills.

John stood and nodded, tucking the notes in his satchel. "He's my brother," he said simply to Dutch. To Hosea. They all reached for their glasses, one more shot to chase after the feelings and the burning anger before John left the hotel to go to the stables.


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I know there's some ideas floating about that Arthur may have Welsh ancestry. Hence Betsi. You'll see what I mean! I'd really appreciate feedback on this one. I found it hard to write for some reason. But I tell you what...just you wait O'Driscolls!!!!

John left the hotel with Hosea and Dutch still watching every door for Arthur's peace of mind, and with a whiskey burn in his throat that almost matched the burn of the anger that he was feeling. A quick glance this way and that reassured him that there were still no o'Driscoll's about to emerge from the shadows as he crossed the expanse of dust and dirt that passed for a road in Valentine. The stable was only a few yards from the hotel, easy enough to get to, he could settle his business quickly and then get back to planning how to bring Colm down, how to make him pay for what he had done to the people that he loved. He stepped from the glare of daylight into the dark of the large stable barn, the change in brightness making everything look a strange shade of green while his eyes adjusted.

"Hi there Mister," John turned to the greeting, presumably the owner of the stables, a nod of the head and a doff of the hat in return. "What can I do you for? Tack? Equipment? Maybe you're in the market for a new horse? Got everything you need right here. You'd be doing me a favour because I'm all full up and I gotta turn folk away as want to stable with me. Not so good for business."

"Yeah, I'm looking for a new horse," John said. The man spoke too much for his liking. He wanted a horse, he wanted to ride on out of there sooner rather than later and he wanted to drape every damned gun that he owned about himself and kill Colm.

"Well take a look around Mister," the stable owner told him, too happy, too cheerful. He waved his hand in the direction of the stalls. " You see anything you like you just let me know, I can tell you all about them..." John let him drone on, the words buzzing about his head like an annoying fly that would not leave him alone. He toned them out and got down to inspecting the animals. Dutch had been generous. The wad of bills was more than enough to buy a horse and a decent enough saddle and to stock up on a few essentials for the saddlebags. Tonics, ointments, food. He walked along the line of the stalls glancing in each, not finding quite the right thing and knowing that he would have to settle on something less than perfect when one horse caught his eye. This one had a star off set on its forehead. It should have beenin the middle and no doubt that would have looked better, fetched maybe a slightly higher price and made the creature look prettier but no, this one was off to one side and not the whitest that it could have been. John knew that star anywhere. He breathed out a low 'no way' as he approached the stall, hand held out. The horse looked at him, huffing a little breath out and bent her head over the low door of her stall to search his hand for food. Finding that he had none she boldly pushed at his shoulder and breathed warm and moist all over his ear. He scratched her on her off set little star and turned to find that the stable owner had finally stopped talking.

"Mister?" John said. "Let me tell you now, dumb luck just so happens to be my strong suit, and this here's the exact horse I was looking for. How much?"

"That one?" the stable owner was shuffling about, scuffing at the floor a bit. "Well, she has no papers with her. She got brought in a few weeks back, been found wandering on her own but all saddled up, saddlebags, the lot. Couple of guns on her would you believe it. I took her in and she seems to be in fine form. No one has claimed her yet and there was nothing in the saddlebags that could identify where she came from."

"Okay?" said John, motioning in a small circle with one hand, trying to urge the man on to whatever point he was getting to so that he could buy the horse and get her to Arthur.

"Well the thing is Mister. If I sell her to you and someone comes looking for her then I might have a bit of a problem."

"Why? Just say you never saw a horse like that around here." John deliberately began unfurling the bills, folding them back one by one, making a show of counting them out one at a time. He watched as the stable owners gaze slipped to them once, twice. "And if anyone stops me on my travels? Well that's my problem to deal with, not yours. Ain't staying around here once I'm done with my business with you anyway." He carried on peeling bills back. The stable owner looked uncertain for a moment more but his eyes were drawn more and more to the money in Johns hand. 

"Well since you put it like that, I suppose I could see my way towards parting with her,"

"Good!" John said, holding most of the stack of bills out to the man. When the stable owner moved to take them John kept hold of them. "That saddle she had. You still got it?"

"Of course. Good saddle, not something I would throw away."

"I'll be needing that too," said John with a smile. "Might as well leave the saddle bags on as well." He did not have much hope that there would be anything left in them and the man would have been a fool to not either keep the guns or sell them on for a profit. He could take them or leave them. The gunsmiths was only down the road if Arthur wanted new ones, or they had plenty going spare back at camp. The stable owner looked like he was about to refuse. John twitched the hand that held the money, hurrying the decicsion.

"Of course, of course," John released the money and the stable owner shuffled away, still talking as he went. "I'll have her ready for you in just a few moments, don't you worry about that none." John turned and walked to the high open doors of the barn, looking out across at the hotel for any signs of movement. Keeping a watch from where he stood just in case. He had one ear on the chatter behind him as the horse was saddled up, checked over, the money put safely away. He listened out for trouble outside as he heard the stable owner approaching from behind him and the familiar sound of hooves coming along with him. Just before he turned away from watching the hotel he saw the door open and Dutch came out, Arthur and Hosea behind him. Taking the rein from the stable owner he nodded his thanks to him and left, walking his new acquisition along next to him.

\---------------------------------------------------------------

Arthur had soaked himself for long enough that the water was starting to cool off. He was not uncomfortable with it, but wary enough to recognise that he ought to get out if he wanted to keep things the way that they had been going. He was not usually a wine drinker, preferring whiskey or beer but since the bottle was there he took it with him when he stood up and took a long draw from it. The taste was good enough. Red and warming, not burning like spirits. It lingered on his tongue as he stood, naked and dripping wet by the side of the bath tub. The room was warm, comfortable. Everything that he could have asked for at that moment. He looked at the bottle, turning it to read the label, all written in a language that he had no hope of ever pronouncing, but it tasted good enough so he downed some more, letting it warm his belly, until only half the bottle remained.

He had been avoiding the long mirror in the corner of the room since he had first set foot in there but now, with the wine settling in comfortably he decided that it was time to look at exactly what he had become over the last few weeks. He had shaved a little at his tent in camp but the mirror was small, only big enough to show most of his face at any one time. Not really even all of it. But the confidence of alcohol and the comfort of a warm bath and the joy of finally feeling clean allowed him to move himself in front of the glass. 

He was thinner than he had been. Much thinner. Food seemed to have been coming up almost as often as it was going down and he had not been able to go hunting, to go riding, to break out into a run whenever he needed to. He could see that he had lost some muscle mass too, shoulders a little less broad than they had been. Nothing a bit of hunting with a rifle would not remedy, or chopping wood and hauling hay bails. He sighed, disappointed by what he saw and detrmined on fixing it once he was back home. His wrists had lost the redness from around them some time ago and they carried no scars but still the feeling of looking at them naked pulled uncomfortably at him so he quickly picked up his bandanas from where he had left them on the chair and tied them on himself, using hands and teeth to secure them in place. 

He took in a deep breath and steadied himself. Twisting slowly he turned on one spot as much as he could, turning his head as much as possible to try to look at his back. He could see the edge of a few scars there. Some still red, although he knew that they were no longer raw to the touch. He pulled his shoulders forward to pull the scars out a little, finding that they did not have quite the same effect as they used to have. He turned the other way, the first feelings of nerves creeping out to nudge at him. He caught up his finger in his teeth, precautionary , just in case. Because he could never be quite sure anymore just what might happen if he did not do it. He found the edges of some other scars on the other side, unable to look much more, whether that be because he had reached the limits of how much a body could twist or because he simply could not look, he was unsure. He shut his eyes and practically spat his finger out and away from his mouth in annoyance. No vomitting was a victory and he was not about to let this mirror ruin his bath. He turned away and dressed quickly, necking one more mouthful of wine before he left the room, walking quickly down the hallway to Dutch and Hosea, his back prickling a little like it had at the lake. Like a monster was about to grab at him if he did not move fast enough.

\---------------------------------------------------------------------

"Arthur!" John called out as Arthur, Dutch and Hosea came down the steps at the front of the hotel. He could see that Dutch was simmering with barely contained rage. Hosea did not look much better but he was worried. It showed all over his face. John knew that they would be in for a long night of talking Dutch down from whatever plan he wanted to throw at the o'Driscolls. Soothe over his anger for something better thought out, less noisy, less bloody. Arthur was something that John could not make out. Certainly cleaner, looking a little better but he had a tension about him. As though his drawings and his hot bath had healed up one thing but opened up something else. Arthur looked his way, a frown pulling at his features. "Got you a present," said John, more quietly as he got closer to him.

Arthur stopped mid stride as he watched John hold out the reins of the horse to him. He felt unsteady. Light headed from heat and wine and now this. This utter miracle that was standing in front of him. He said nothing, did not move. Could do nothing at all. All sound seemed to have drained from the world around him, he did not know what John was saying as he watched him talking to Dutch and Hosea, saying something, smiling, watching their faces relax into happiness. He watched his own hand reach forward and take the reins from John. He felt a hot tear track down one cheek and he knew that he had stepped forward to press his face into the neck of this horse, of this wonderful gift. She smelled perfect, she was all smoke and grass. He wrapped his arms around her and leant into her as much as she leant into him. 

"My girl," he muttered into her neck. "Betsi, my girl."

The horse moved her head back, pulling away from him to look him straight in the eye. She huffed her hot breath over his face, lipping at his features and his hair. She lifted her huge head over one of his shoulders and sniffed and snorted gently down his back. She knew, he realised, as he held on to her, letting her explore him. She knew and she was checking him, finding what was changed and what was unchanged. Finding that underneath all of the invisible and, in some cases visible mess, he was still him. And there was no one in the world that she trusted more. He let her carry on exploring, the only living being that had touched his back since that first time back at camp. It was soothing and calming. When she had finished checking him over she pulled away and nudged at his hands, at his pockets, making him laugh and dash away the tear track with the back of his hand.

"Ain't got nothing for you girl," he said, tone laced with apology. She huffed and went back to bothering his hair again. "How John?" he asked, interrupting the conversation going on beside him as sound rushed back to his world.

"Someone found her wandering and brought her here," said John. "Stable owner still had your saddle too, but anything else is long gone Im afraid."

"I don't need anything else," said Arthur. He pulled himself up into the saddle with an ease that had been entirely missing on the ride onto town. He settled, legs and back relaxed, head up, eyes forward. 

"Mister!" They all turned at the same time to find the voice that was yelling out, paranoia bone deep and inbuilt into them all, more now than ever before. Dutch and Hosea had their hands ready to draw their weapons if they needed to with the practiced ease of years of necessity. Arthur was still unarmed but looked to John who seeemd to be reacting a little slower than the others. He followed his lead, panic damped down by the presence of his family, by sitting high on Betsi. "Mister!" called the man who was shouting at them as he hurried across from the stable.

"Stable owner," John said shortly. Dutch and Hosea relaxed their stance a little but remained ready, cautious. "Trouble already?" John asked the man. 

"No, no. No nothing like that," the man reached up and handed John a hat. "I forgot, this was stuffed into one of the saddle bags and I forgot to get rid of it. If you want it it's yours. It's not worth anything to me."

"Thank you kindly," John said, taking the hat off the man and waving it at him in a gesture of dismissal. He handed it up to Arthur before unhitching his own horse and Lenny's. Arthur took it from him, turning it over a couple of times in his hands, marvelling at its return to him, at how perfect it felt. At how complete he seemed to be in that moment. He put it on his head settled it down in place.

"Feels good," he said over his shoulder to John. "Got no words John, no way to thank you. No way to thank any of you." 

"Only words you need are 'you're right John, your horse is faster than mine' when I beat your ass back to camp." Arthur needed no more encouragement, spurring Betsi forward into action, tearing off and away to camp, followed swfitly by John and almost as closely by Dutch and Hosea. A wonderful moment of carefree shining out from all of the turmoil around it. Whatever had looked still broken when John had seen him come out of the hotel looked like it was starting to heal.


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wanted to write a little something so I took the chance during nap time. It's very short and mainly sweet but I wanted to get a like something written for you all. 
> 
> Soooo...
> 
> This is just a little stop gap to jump us from Betsi's return to the gang figuring out just how to do what ever it is they need to do with the O'Driscolls. 
> 
> Back soon!

John's horse may not have been faster than Arthur's, at least not on any other day. But with Betsi back with him, with his hat and his satchel and a feeling of freedom that came from all of that along with the knowledge of finally bathing without being sick and without panicking, Arthur slowed up and reined in sooner than he normally would. He was content to race along at a steadier pace and bask in the feel of normality, to even bask in the sound of John crowing out his victory from up ahead. They slowed their pace as they neared camp, John still in the lead, the childish little brother streak in him unwilling to slow up too much in case Arthur decided to spur Betsi on and call him out at the last moment. Both breathing hard, both horses huffing and run out, they dismounted near the camps hitching post.

"What do you say?" John asked, sidling up to Arthur as soon as his boots hit the floor next to Betsi. 

"I suppose I say you're right John, your horse is faster than mine," said Arthur with no effort at conviction behind the meaning and the words. 

"Good enough for me," John said, grinning widely and holding out a hand to Arthur. He took it with no hesitation, shaking firmly up and down a couple of times before John turned away, arms in the air and calling out to whoever was or was not listening that Old Boy had beat Betsi in a race. Arthur could see from the edge of his vision that a few heads turned to look, to see Betsi come back to them. He could see Hosea and Dutch riding into camp and dismounting. He was glad for their arrival which would take the edge off any excitement around him. He was grateful that most people still approached him uneasily or nervously, still unsure of what words to offer him. He was calmed beyond measure by the ability to take his own time in removing Betsi's saddle, and in brushing her down on his own with no disturbances.

He took the time to run his hands over her, feeling the familiar planes of her muscles, the turn of her coat. He scratched at the lopsided star not quite in the middle between her eyes. He wrapped his arms around her neck and stood still, just feeling her weight leaning slightly up against him before she got bored and began nudging him for treats again. 

"Impatient girl," he muttered to her, letting her lip at his hands, coming up short and huffing at him. "Give me a minute," he said to her. He went to his tent and rifled around in his clothes chest knowing that she was watching him the whole time, not willing to let herself be tricked after waiting so long for something nice from him. He came up with an old peppermint covered in lint and wished that he could have found her something better. He tucked it in the palm of his hand and held both behind his back while he walked back to her. "Which one girl?" he asked. She eyed him cautiously before raising her head and knocking him on the left shoulder. "You sure?" he said, laughing as she knocked the same shoulder again. "Alright, alright, you win," he told her, bringing his left hand out and opening the palm up to her so she could nip up the peppermint, lint and all. "Never one to be fussy hey girl?"

He stood with her while she crunched her treat, each regarding the other until she nudged at his right shoulder too. "Nothing there for..." He stopped as he realised suddenly that he had let his right hand stay behind his back. That he had not even realised that it was there. That the tug of his bandana on that wrist had not even occured to him. That he was not forcing his fist into his lower back to seek out comfort where none should be. That this time the reason no comfort could be had there was because that was no longer where it was. There were better places to find it, places that did not hurt and pull and make him heave up bile. He held his right hand up to her and watched as she nosed it and then snorted out a huge, wet, horse nose breath all over it. 

"Fair enough girl," he said with a laugh, "I got the same opinion of them as you got."

He took a little more time to himself to spend with her, just soaking in the feel of her presence and all the freedom that having her back meant to him. He knew that he would need to face Dutch and Hosea eventually. John had told them what had happened, that much he was aware of, but he did not know how much they would want to discuss it, or how much they would want to talk to him about it. The whole sorry state of affairs was going to need to be addressed one way or another, he was certain of that. He just had no idea how much he wanted to be a part of it, or indeed if Dutch would let him be a part of it in the first place. It was a muddle of confusion to him. Would he just be told what to do or what not to do and if he had a choice, what part would he even want to play in it anyway. He sighed and shoook his head, patting Betsi once more. 

"Reckon I gotta go take a lie down girl," he said, scratching at her star and leaving her to nibble at the grass around her so that he could retreat to his cot. He had left the sides of the canvas cover rolled down and was content to leave them that way, pushing the material to one side to drop down on to his back, letting his hat fall back and off his head as he landed. Panic had not seen fit to raise his head since Betsi had been returned to him so he allowed himself to close his eyes and drift off to the sounds of camp outside, not quite asleep but not quite fully awake. The ride had been amazing, had done more for him than he had thought possible but it had certainly worn him out. Inaction was fine by him in its own way. He did not feel tied to the camp or that anyone was stopping him doing anything. He simply had not felt up to it and had had no horse of his own until an hour ago with which to ride out on. Panic raised its hackles a touch as he drifted further towards sleep from awake, reminding him that riding out in the first place was what had got him into this mess until relief kicked it firmly back down, the thought of his small victories at the hotel and with his hands behind his back for Betsi winning out and letting him succumb fully to the pull of sleep.


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let the planning commerce! So now you have an idea what's in store... 
> 
> Next? Well, gotta get the wheels turning on those no good bastards! 
> 
> Sorry the chapters are short. Time constraints may have to mean more chapters but shorter rather than fewer chapters but longer. I hope that's ok with you all.

"We move camp and we do it quietly," Dutch said to Hosea and John, the three of them in Dutch's tent. "A couple of us at a time with a wagon each and I want two people up front. Everyone else fits themselves in the back somehow, I don't care how. We need to look unassuming."

"You sure it's best to move now?" John said, looking to Hosea who remained silent, but John knew that he was thnking it all through before saying anything.

"I am certain," said Dutch. 

"We don't want to risk them getting to us on the road if anything goes wrong," said Hosea to Dutch. John knew that he should trust Dutch entirely but Dutch had always maintained revenge was a fools errand and while he agreed that they should end the O'Driscolls once and for all he knew that he would feel better if Hosea backed whatever plan Dutch came up with. "You know it makes sense Dutch. Let's do it from here where Arthur is comfortable, let's not upset the applecart more than we need to. Our first thoughts need to be of him."

Dutch dropped his head down, took his hat off and ran a hand through his hair before placing the hat back on. "You're right," he said. "Arthur comes first. Everyone is going to be pulling their weight on this," Dutch said. "I want one quick and clean raid on the place. We get in, we kill, we get back out. But I need numbers on our side. I have your loyalty, I have the gangs trust and loyalty. But the O'Driscolls have numbers and that counts for something too."

"Thin them out a bit?" Hosea asked. 

"How?" asked John. "That;s bound to get us noticed." He turned to Hosea. "Isn't it?"

Hosea sat and scratched at his chin, brows furrowed but a smile slowly edging the corners of his mouth up.

"I know that look," said Dutch. "What are you thinking?"

"We only need one man to give us information," said Hosea. "Lord knows they're a lousy bunch of dumbass blockheads so all I need is one of our lovely ladies to lead our willing victim on and then we can make him talk. And while that's happening, myself and Mr Smith will be preparing natures finest poisons which the rest of our ladies will slip into the drinks of any O'Driscoll that they find in any saloon. Because thanks to that one poor unfortunate informer, we're going to know where they are. We get him a few nights in advance first. We poison the night before so that no word can travel back with enough time to warn them that anything other than a few dirty stop outs have failed to come back to their camp. Consider their numbers thinned."

"Still haven't lost your touch hey?" said John.

"Don't plan on ever losing it dear boy,"

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Arthur woke mainly thanks to the smell of stew wafting across the camp in the early evening. He was beginning to feel hungry he had noticed. Over the last few days and weeks his stomach had taken to grumbling when he went too long without food and his brain was starting to agree with him that he ought to eat more. He found that if he was careful when he ate and made sure not to try anything too dry that he could swallow easily, that the food did not necessarily threaten to come straight back up as soon as it hit the back of his throat. He still avoided plain bread but so long as it was dipped in a sauce or covered in butter then he could eat it. Things that had been easy and were made hard by hard men and hard treatment were slowly relaxing back into some semblance of normal. He swung his legs off his cot, stretching up and out as he did so, the habit of flexing his wrists still there but only just nudging at the edge of delibrate movement.

"Arthur," he heard his name being called as soon as his foot was out of the tent. Hosea approached him, a bowl of stew in each hand, one of which he held out to Arthur who took it gratefully while Hosea pulled two spoons from where he had tucked them into his gun belt. "We have a plan in place, come listen." Arthur followed him to the camp fire and noticed everyone but John and Charles there.

"Where are John and Charles?" he asked Hosea.

"On watch duty," hosea said. "They know the plan, but we can't have any undesirables over hearing us now. Sit," he motioned to a space on a log, sitting next to Arthur as they both finished their stew. Everyone was gathered, all looking at Dutch, all expecting.

"I know that you will all have heard me tell you time and time again that revenge is a fools game," said Dutch. "But a man has his limits and mine have been reached. A grudge goes so far and no further, so I will put a stop to it. Colm killed my Annabelle for my killing of his brother. That was an eye for an eye but apparently it was not enough for him. He has taken and taken from me. He has tried to take Arthur from us. Clearly he will not stop until we stop him." All eyes were on Dutch, no spoons moved in their stew bowls, drinks were left to one side. Arthur could see some of the men sub consciously reaching to their waists where their weapons were hanging, knives, guns, arrows, anything that they could grasp. The women had fire in their eyes and the desire for revenge in their bellies, their faces made that plain to him. He waited for the embarrasment to creep up on him, to feel ashamed for needing the rescue and for being the reason that everyone had forgotten what to say around him. It never came though. As he looked around him he felt safe, he felt supported. He felt the calm that came with hearing Dutch lay out their path in front of him, with the certainty that they were all in this together and they were about to something to make a wrong a right.

"Ladies I want you to decide on one of you to seduce us an O'Driscoll," Dutch continued. "Nothing too drastic, you don't have to do anything with him other than get the fool back to a pre arranged meeting place and then, gentlemen, we will make him talk. The rest of you ladies, once we have the information that we need from that man, will take poison on your persons and slip it into the drink of all O'Driscolls that you can find in the space of one night. The next night we take them on in their camp, the location of which will have been provided by our first guest, with their number greatly reduced. Colm is to be taken alive. I want him brought to me. There are to be no objections to that. Alive. Mr Smith and Mr Matthews will go out tomorrow to gather the ingredients for the poison and they will craft it for us. If anyone has any questions then think on them overnight and come find me in the morning." Dutch backed away from the edge of the fire and moved to go back to his tent, content to leave the group to talk things through without having to worry about him overhearing anything that they might not want to say in front of him. "Arthur," he murmured, touching Arthur on the shoulder as he walked past him. Arthur stood and handed his bowl to Hosea who nodded at him as he turned and followed Dutch to his tent.

Once they were in the confines of the tent Dutch released the ties that held the canvas back. "Sit down son," he said. Arthur sat, still feeling alert and ready from hearing Dutch speak, from knowing that Colm would be stopped and that Dutch would make sure that they were never going to get to him again. "John told us what happened," he said, looking over his shoulder at Arthur, pouring two shots of whiskey from his decanter which he kept away from anyone else. 

"I know," said Arthur, forearms resting on his thighs and his head hanging low.

"I need to know," Arthur looked up, unsure where Dutch was about to go with this. "Do you want to be a part of this?"

"Of an O'Driscoll rampage?" asked Arthur. Dutch observed him, handing him his shot glass. "Oh yeah, I ain't sitting this one out." Arthur raised his glass and knocked it to Dutch's, tapping the glass down to his knee and knocking it back in one mouthful. "Dutch," Arthur began, before pausing just too long for comfort. 

"What is it?" asked Dutch. 

"You said we go in clean," Arthur looked to Dutch, waiting until Dutch nodded at him. "Okay. Well, I ain't gonna do anything like what was done to me. We ain't gonna do that are we. I want those bastards stone cold dead Dutch, believe me. I may not be the best of men but I'll kill, you know that. I will when I need to. But what they done to me? I wouldn't wish that on anyone. Even Colm O'Driscoll."

"We go in clean," said Dutch. 

"Will you make it quick?" Arthur did not know if he was asking simply from curiosity or because he wanted to make sure the Colm would be treated to the swift end that he would have wished for himself. When Dutch did not answer immediately Arthur spoke again. "I'm a hard man Dutch, we all are. But even hard men can have soft edges and when a man's life is about to end, when his time left is counting down..."

"Oh it'll be quick enough, " Dutch said. "Look son. You have got to get what you need for what he did to you. But for me, I need something not just for you but for Annabelle too."

"So what exactly do you mean by quick enough?"

"Oh we'll hang him alright. Only we'll pull him up away from the ground, not let him fall towards it. I have your drawings," said Dutch, a swift change in the course of the conversation, taking the glass back and turning back to refill it and his own, opening a book and picking up Arthurs pictures from where he had hidden them from prying eyes in between the pages. He held both glass and paper out to Arthur who took both. Carefully he folded the papers and tucked them in his waistband to keep them all together in one place. He looked back up at Dutch, meeting their glasses again and taking the shot back in one.

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So once again I pressed post instead of preview! Once i realised I quickly went back and made sure to tie up the end of this chapter in case anyone had already clicked on it. So it's a little truncated but hopefully hasn't suffered for that. And it'll still lead nicely into the next part.

"Sir!" Karen called out to the O'Driscoll who was stumbling away from the saloon. "Oh! Sir please!"

"Piss off," he shot back at her, shouldering roughly past her. She took the opportunity to take a tumble to the ground, allowing her skirt to puff up around her as she went. The man looked back at her and she watched his face carefully. He might have been an ignorant prick when it came to a woman asking for help, but clearly one lying on the floor with her skirts riding up was enough to make him look curious and oddly hungry. That was all she needed.

"I was getting off my horse sir," she said, motioning to her horse a little way behind her and making sure to keep addressing him as sir. "I landed awkwardly on my ankle and..." she drifted off and rubbed at her ankle, wrapping her hand around it and twisting it gently in simulation of more private acts. She watched him for a moment and breathed out a whimper before continuing. "Do you think you could help me please? I'm staying at the hotel but I don't think that I can walk there unaided."

"Well, for a lady in such need," he drawled at her as he stepped over and helped her up. She draped herself around him and breathed a thank you into his ear, clinging tightly to him as he helped her to the hotel and up the steps at the front. He opened the door to the lobby and helped her to the bottom of the staircase. Karen unhooked herself from around him and laughed, dipping her head forward to rub a hand slowly across the back of her neck.

"I do believe that I have worked up quite a sweat from all of that exertion," she said. "You must be feeling it too sir, practically carrying me all this way. Help me to my room won't you, I have something that I would like to give you for your troubles."

"No trouble at all miss," he said, eagerly taking hold of her again and walking with her up the stairs. She directed him to the room at the furthest end of the corridor, lamenting as she went that it was just her luck to have been given the room so far away from the entrance. She fumbled with her key for a while at the door, trying it a couple of times in the lock before she got it in and turned, letting them both into the room. 

"Just let me down here," she said, directing him to the bed, pulling him down to sit with her as she went. "Why thank you so much," she said, leaning towards him. He was openly smiling at her, a filthy glint in his eye and practically drooling over her. She continued to lean, pushing past him with her upper body. "Let me just reach into my drawer here sir, and I will get you your reward. You have more than earned it." She opened the drawer, feeling him him twist a little where he sat, hearing the sound of his belt buckle being opened. Sitting back up she smiled at him and placed one hand on his shoulder, the other fisted around nothing but think air and false promises, the impression being that something special was about to be unfurled when she opened that hand. "Here you go," she smiled up at him and opened her hand. He looked down at her empty palm, then raised his eyes to hers, managing nothing more than a surprised noise before the blow to the back of his head knocked him out cold. As he fell to one side Karen moved away and let him fall, smiling up at Sean standing just behind that space that the O'Driscoll had vacated, a thick wooden bludgeon held in his hand.

"Now that is what I call team work," said Sean, grinning as he bent to start tying up the O'Driscoll.

\------------------------------------------------------

"Roll up roll up!" Sean shouted out as he and Karen rode back to camp. "Allow me to present one sad little fucker who only knows how to think with his dick." He leapt eagerly down from his horse and roughly dragged the gagged and tied O'Driscoll off too. 

"One O'Driscoll for you Dutch," Karen said, swaying her hips as she walked to the man tied up and on the floor behind Sean's horse. "Dumb idiot," she said, nudging him with the toe of her boot. "Seems you have found your way straight into the Van Der Linde camp. Good luck."

Arthur watched from further away, not moving towards Sean and Karen like almost everyone else had the moment that they had returned. He stood and watched the man on the floor. He waited for some flicker of recognition but he could not place the face. Maybe this man had not personally administered any of the torture that had been inflicted upon him. He flinched a little as a hand landed on his shoulder, the smallest leap of panic at seeing an O'Driscoll so close by was making him more jumpy than he had hoped to be. 

"Sorry," he heard John say, the hand moving off him. John's hand. Nothing to be afraid of. 

"Ain't nothing to be sorry about," said Arthur. "Just..." he sighed and trailed off, never looking away from the O'Driscoll.

"Yeah," said John. "You okay?" 

"Just working out if I'm about to walk over there and strangle that son of a bitch or if I'm about to throw up," He turned to look at John, a humourless smile pulling at the corner of his lips. "Tired of throwing up though John, tired of the violence."

"You ain't thrown up in a while," John muttered. "You're...well I don't know what the words are. Seems like it ain't enough to say you're doing great. Seems like it's gonna sound stupid if I tell you you're the best man I know and I don't want you to take that and not believe it because I reckon that's what you might do." He glanced at Arthur and back at the O'Driscoll again, watching as Dutch approached and took pulled the gag down to the mans neck, and the man was hauled off to the centre of the camp, the men pulling his arms and legs out and pinning him out on the dirt, spread eagled. "Don't reckon you're gonna be sick." Arthur considered what John had given him. He let himself ponder on the words, on the idea of him being the best man he knew, on the idea that he could be the best man at not throwing up, not letting panic win.

"If he don't talk then we're going to have to get it out of him somehow," said Arthur. John nodded, saying nothing. "Would you come with me if that happens? I don't think that I can do that. Not even to him. I know how it feels John, I know what it does and even though I know Dutch would kill him after I just cannot be a part of that. Killing? Yeah that's fine. But nothing before it. I couldn't stay for that, couldn't see it, couldn't hear it." He stopped and looked to John. John nodded at him.

"You got my word on it brother," said John as Dutch called for them to come over. "You ready?" he asked Arthur. 

"Sure am," he said, stepping out across the camp to join Dutch.

"Mr Morgan!" Dutch called out, arms open wide and putting on a show for the benefit of the man pegged out on the ground. "I believe you and your gang are familiar with Mr Morgan?" he said to the O'Driscoll. When he got no response he continued on. "I assume that you probably thought that you had broken him. That he would never be the same again." Arthur listened to Dutch spinning lies. Of course they had broken him. Of course he would never be the same again. But now was not the time for vulnerabilities and this O'Driscoll certainly did not need to know how much it had taken for Arthur to get to the semi healed state that he was in. He was glad that he started eating better, started moving more. He had filled back out a bit, put some more muscle mass back on, his bulk towering in a menacing sillhouette above the man. "Seems to me that you were wrong. Colm was wrong." 

"What do you want from me?" said the O'Driscoll.

"Oh just your name," said Dutch.

"My name?" the man looked confused.

"What, you don't have one? It's not exactly a difficult question."

"I ain't telling you a thing," he said. Dutch sighed and bent down next to the O'Driscoll, one knee on the ground, and grasped the gag to pull out back over his chin and between his teeth. 

"You suit yourself for now," Dutch said. "We got plenty to be getting on with and we don't need you disturbing us so you just lie there nice and quiet and I'll check again some other time." Dutch stood and brushed some stray blades of dry grass from his trouser leg while the O'Driscoll snarled at him from behind his gag. "Mr Smith!" he called out across the camp. "Keep working on that poison, you're doing a fine job." Dutch looked back down at the man and smiled, amused as he visibly paled where he lay. Dutch nodded to Arthur, a signal to move away and leave the O'Driscoll to mull things over in his own time. 

\---------------------------------------------------------------

It took three days of the O'Driscoll vigorously shaking his head in response to any questions. No one had hurt him, but they had mostly ignored him, only approaching to ask if he wanted to tell them his name. When he refused they would move away and leave him to it for a little longer. Everyone held firm to Dutch's belief that the man did not need feeding. Arthur considered the odd triumvirate of it all. Rescue those as need rescuing which Dutch, John and Charles had done when they came for him. Feed those as need feeding which they had done for him where Colm had used it as a method to torment him. Kill those as need killing. That part would start soon enough. He let his mind wander in the way that it had become wont to do since he had resided at the pleasure of Colm O'Driscoll, it had become a useful way to chase panic down by letting his thoughts dance around one another in such a way that they spun webs that panic could not find a way through. Being with Colm had failed to kill him, and the aftermath of it had failed to break him entirely so he could only assume that as a result he was now stronger. He was grateful for that notion as he watched Dutch yet again kneel by the O'Driscoll and pull the gag out of his mouth to ask him his name. Arthur walked over to join them, shoulders back and pulled up to his full height in a way that he knew could intimidate just by being there. A man that the O'Driscoll would assume had bent but not broken.

"So, let's start small again," Dutch said as Arthur reached him, letting his shadow fall just short of the mans eyes, enough to keep him squinting up at them. "What is your name?" Arthur held his silence and watched. The moment stretched out and Dutch took hold of the gag again and raised it up over the mans chin.

"Aaron," the O'Driscoll croaked out, dry after almost three days with no food or water. 

"Aaron," Dutch repeated back to him quietly, threateningly. "Good boy. Water over here please!" Dutch called out and Miss Grimshaw approached with a pitcher which she bent and held to Aaron's lips.

Arthur maintained his silence, watching the events before him passively as Dutch summoned the men of the group to gather around, towering each and every one of them above Aaron. He knew what part he needed to play so he kept his mouth shut and watched Dutch perform. 

"You see Aaron, now I know that you are capable of giving me a polite answer to a polite question. So now I can ask you a few more things and maybe this time you can tell me a little quicker instead of lying there wasting your time. Wasting my time. Getting yourself all sunburned up for no good reason. Now I need to know where Colm has himself holed up and I would like you to tell me."

"And what?" Aaron said. Arthur noticed that talking was making his dried lips crack and bleed at the edges. "You'll promise me my freedom if I tell you? That how it's gonna work?"

"I am not going to promise you anything.," said Dutch. "All I want is to know where Colm is." Around him and Arthur, the other men moved slightly where they stood. Hands going to gun belts, fingers twitching at hunting knives. Looking just the right side of restless and trigger happy as to unnerve Aaron a little more. Someone cracked their knuckles and John kicked into the dirt a little. 

"Maybe I don't know where he is," said Aaron.

"Maybe you do and you are simply being difficult," Dutch said, leaning in to Aarons face, sneering at him. "Well I can be difficult too." He stood and began to address both Aaron and the men around him. "There are many parts that a man can live without. He can live without his ears, his eyes, his nose, his lips. He can get by without his tongue. He can live without his nipples, his fingers, hell his entire hands. He can live without his dick and his balls. He can live without his toes and he can live without his feet." Arthur could see that Aaron was struggling to control a tremor of terror that wastwitching at him, making him jerk a little at his bonds. He had turned a sickly shade of grey and green. "The only question is, do we start from the top and work our way down, or do we start from the bottom and work our way up?"

"Or do we start at each end and meet in the middle?" Charles said, low and quiet. Aaron was breathing more heavily, a small noise escaping from his chapped lips.

"What do you think Arthur?" Dutch said.

"Oh I think you've missed one question," Arthur said, shifting himself to stand between Aarons legs.

"And what would that be son?"

Arthur pressed the heel of his boot into the ground just below Aarons crotch and pushed forward with the toe of his boot. "Do we start in the middle and work our way out?" He pushed harder and Aaron wriggled, gasped and hollered out. Arthur held his hand out to one side and someone pleaced the hilt of a knife in it. He continued to apply the pressure as he leant forward, hoping that Aaron would break before he had to hand that knife back and make a run for it. Before all of his self control ran itself out in its desperate flight from panic.

"Hanging Dog Ranch!" Aaron yelled out. "He's at Hanging Dog Ranch! I can tell you where please please, I can show you, I can tell you. Please don't carve me up sir please. He's at Hanging Dog Ranch." Aaron heaved in a huge breath and sobbed it back out, in and out over and over as Arthur let up the pressure and held the knife back out, looking to see John take it back from him. He hoped that the look that he gave John conveyed how grateful he was that he was there next to him. He could hear some murmurs around him, words like 'pathetic' and 'coward' stood out. Without saying a word he turned and walked away.


	17. Chapter 17

Arthur had walked down to the edge of the water, scuffing up stones as he went and kicking them into the lake. On instinct he reached for his satchel to get at his cigarettes, cursing when he realised that he had left it under his cot. Sitting down he picked through a few more stones, skimming a couple out across the waters surface and sinking the rest. He watched as the silt beneath them churned up, puffing slow motion clouds into the lake, and he worked his throat in an attempt to encourage himself to vomit. The feeling was not there much anymore yet now when he wanted to heave out all of the thoughts and memories that Aaron brought up he just could not make it happen. Not even sat looking at the murky water that had so successfully frightened him into vomiting only recently. Giving it up as a bad job he huffed out another curse word and flung a stone as hard and as far as he could. He followed it's arc through the air until it dropped with a satisfying plop into the water then he balled his hands into fists and flexed at the bandanas around his wrists. They felt too loose today, he found that he could not be satisfied with anything less than tight pressure all around them. Taking them off he leant forward and dipped them in the water, soaking them completely then he tied them back in place, waiting for them to dry and contract around him. He lay back with his eyes closed and stretched himself out in the sun, the realisation that he had positioned himself like Aaron was tied was not lost on him. 

"Want company? " John asked from somewhere behind him. Arthur kept his eyes shut against the sudden sting of tears, against the way that his throat tightened around his upset and against the way that it reminded him too much of a noose.

"I don't know what I want," he said honestly, voice thick around the unshed tears. "I spend all day every day with my mind running itself to ground because that should stop me going crazy. I thought I was better but I'm panicking right now and I think I might actually want to be sick but I can't even get that right." He kept his eyes shut as he felt John's shadow move across him, the brief cool upon him where it blocked the sun. He heard John sit beside him. "Am I meant to hate that O'Driscoll who might not even have been there when they... when..."

"I know," said John, taking care never to say that he understood. He listened to everything Arthur said but he knew that he could never fully understand and he would be damned if he was going to patronise Arthur that way.

"I think I might hate Dutch right now," said Arthur. "I think i might hate him for getting revenge even though I love him for bringing me home. I think I hate myself for starting this whole mess off in the first place."

"Reckon you got Colm to blame for that," John said. 

"I've got me to blame for it John!" Arthur yelled, breaking his carefully constructed composure, dropping all of his barriers. "It was me, it was me, it was me!" He bellowed the words out, still lying prone, chest heaving with the sudden effort and careless of who heard. Sitting himself upright all of a sudden he barely registered John scooting himself closer instead of away from his anger. He tore at the damp bandanas around his wrists, roughly getting some space between the material and his skin, enough to wriggle his hands out of them as he threw them to the ground, scratching angry red lines on the exposed skin with his finger nails, drawing small beads of blood here and there. With a yell he tried to reach around to his back, to try to feel something that might be right or might be wrong because he had lost sight of which should be which. 

John reached out and caught hold of Arthur's left hand, twisting himself to the side to block the punch that Arthur threw at him. The blow was hard, heavy, but careless and unfocused, swung with little in the way of concentration. He took it and used it to grasp Arthur's other arm, wrestling him down to the ground in a way that would have been impossible before, when Arthur was at the peak of his strength. They grunted and huffed at each other, John focused, Arthur blindly fighting out at whatever demons he had let out within himself. 

"Come on," John said, forced out from between gritted teeth as he managed to roll Arthur face down into the dirt. He pulled Arthur's arms behind him, held his wrists together and waited, sat on the backs of Arthur's legs as he struggled beneath him. "Is this what you want Arthur? Is this what you need? You still need this kind of thing? Because that's fine okay? You know that, it's fine. You don't gotta put yourself together any faster than you can. You need this you come to me you hear?" He felt Arthur becoming more still beneath him. "You come to me and I will sort it. You want me to stay here and tie your wrists up like when you came back? Fine! You need to draw? That's fine too. You just wanna sit in silence then I'll sit in silence with you." He felt Arthur give up, he felt the fight leave him in one big sigh at the same time as he felt the shaking in- breath and the shudders of sobbing. "Come on," he said again, lifting himself off Arthur and pulling him up, holding on to him and letting him cry inti his chest as though he were a child. 

"What have they done with him?" Arthur asked into the fabric of John's shirt. 

"He's tied up to one of the hitching posts. Miss Grimshaw is getting to get him to eat something."

"He's not a coward John," Arthur said, pushing himself away and swiping at his eyes with the back of his hand. "And he's not pathetic. I heard them say that about him." 

John regarded Arthur for a long moment before reaching for the discarded bandanas and unknotting them. He held the first one out and Arthur presented a wrist to him so that he could tie it. He motioned for Arthur's other wrist and secured the second bandana around it. 

"No he's not," John said eventually. "He ain't any of those things." He wanted to tell Arthur that he was neither of those things as well but when he considered it, it fell into place and he could not see how to make it right. No one in the gang would ever think that about Arthurbl but they had said it about an O'Driscoll for being in the same situation. If he had to guess he would assume that similar things had been said to Arthur when he had been held captive. "I suppose when it ain't been you in that situation it just comes down to whose side you're on. You know better than that I reckon."

"We're going to kill him," Arthur stated.

"Yeah," John said simply. There was no other way about it. To get to Colm they were going to have to go through a lot of other men. He reached into a pocket and produced a couple of cigarettes and a match, lighting them and handing one to Arthur. 

"It's just harder than I thought, " said Arthur, pulling smoke into his lungs and blowing it back out. "It's hard." He lay down in the dirt on his back again and shut his eyes, letting his mind go only so far as his wrists, concentrating on the tightening of the bandanas as they dried in the sun. "Would you just stay here John? "

"Whatever you need Arthur. I mean it."


	18. Chapter 18

When Arthur made his way back to camp he avoided looking at Aaron, avoided looking at the spot where he had been tied up, avoided everything about him. Instead he left John with Jack who was demanding his father's time and went looking for Hosea, finding him crafting something at the camps scout fire .

"Arthur," Hosea said by way of a greeting. "Sit won't you? " Arthur sat beside Hosea and peered across at what he was making. "Poison," said Hosea. Arthur hummed a small noise out to show that he had heard. Dutch was so overpowering and so very much in charge that no one thought to question where Arthur's truest and strongest bond lay, but if anyone had asked him then the truth of it was that he was and always had been more Hosea's boy than Dutch's. He could spend hours with Hosea and not feel the need to fill silence with careless words. They spoke when they needed about what they needed. Arthur could suppose that to an onlooker it may appear to be curt and lacking in closeness but it was the product of decades worth of respect.

"What's on your mind Arthur?" Hosea asked, swirling the poison in a tin cup over the heat of the flames. 

"O'Driscolls," said Arthur. "Me, Dutch. You name it, it's on my mind."

"Okay," Arthur watched Hosea pour the steaming liquid from the cup into a bottle, stoppering it tightly.

"Colm said I was pathetic, " Arthur said suddenly. Hosea looked at him, the shift in the conversation taking him by surprise. He put the bottle down carefully before turning his body to face Arthur better. 

"And that got under your skin. And now you want to dig it out,"

"That O'Driscoll, Aaron," said Arthur. 

"Yes, but not for much longer, " said Hosea.

"I know we gotta kill him, but I want to be the one to do it. I need you to clear this with Dutch. He's already got it planned, how Colm is gonna die and there ain't any changing that. That's who he really wants and I can't say as I'll be sorry to see him go. But I don't want him taking anything out on Aaron that wasn't even there in the first place."

"Do you recognise him? " Hosea asked. 

"No," Arthur answered honestly. "But he's terrified Hosea. And I played along with everyone else to make him feel that way, to get him to talk. "

"Would you have hurt him?"

Arthur sighed, dropping his head low and running his hands through his hair, letting the feel of his bound wrists tighten and flex as he did so. "No," he said. "I wouldn't have done that. Not now, not anymore. It's changed everything for me Hosea. So i want to give him what Colm would have denied me. I want to put a bullet between his eyes quickly. I don't think I trust anyone else to do that for me. It's the only thing that I can do for him."

"Do you think he'd have done the same for you?"

"Before? Probably not," Arthur answered honestly. "But now, maybe." Hosea slapped his hands down on his knees and pushed himself to his feet, stooping to pick up the bottle of poison. 

"I'll get it sorted for you," he said, leaving Arthur with a pat on the shoulder. Arthur watched him, saw him hand over the bottle to Tilly and then go into Dutch's tent. A little further off he saw John crouched down in the dirt next to Jack. He wanted to ask John to move Betsi away from Aaron by the hitching post so that he could spend some time with her but he was loathe to interrupt him when he was spending time with his son. There seemed to be a swelling of activity growing across the camp. He saw Hosea and then Charles leave Dutch's tent with Dutch following not long after. Charles was gathering up weapons and he could see Karen and Mary-Beth slinging bags over their shoulders. Tilly was tucking the bottle of poison into a satchel hung across her chest as she approached her horse. Arthur took the opportunity that that granted him to call her over. 

"Tilly," he called out to her. 

"Hey Arthur, how you doing?" Tilly asked him. 

"Well enough, " he said. "Look can you do me a favour and take Betsi over by the chickens for me?"

"Sure Arthur," she said, looking over at Aaron and the at Betsi. "No problem." He was sure that she understood and was beyond grateful that she did not feel the need to state the obvious. He felt small and shamed enough as it was. 

"You ladies moving on out?" asked Arthur. 

"Sure are," said Tilly. "We'll ride part way now, make camp then carry on tomorrow. Sean and Charles are coming with us just in case. Dutch says you men are riding it in one day tomorrow and we'll all meet up there to finish this off." She moved to Betsi and unhitched her, clicking her tongue to encourage Betsi forward with her. Arthur stood and stretched his muscles out.

"Guess that's my cue to go talk to Dutch then," he said. 

"Sure thing Arthur," said Tilly. "I'll leave Betsi over there for you."

"You're a good girl Tilly. You take care out there okay," Arthur tipped his hat to her and walked toward Dutch's tent. He would have preferred to go straight to Betsi and lean in to her certain stability but he had an idea that he would need her presence more after this meeting than before it. He stopped outside the tent and watched Dutch finish up talking to Charles, not bothering to try to listen to what they were saying. With a slap on the back by way of goodbye, Arthur could see that their conversation was over and he took a deep breath in and out to try to calm and control himself. 

"Son," said Dutch, going into the tent and holding back the canvas for Arthur up duck under as well. "Hosea tells me that you would like to be the one that kills the O'Driscoll."

"Aaron," said Arthur. 

"Yes," Dutch said slowly, as though placating a child before a temper tantrum erupted. "Aaron." Arthur knew that he was too far gone in his plans, too focused on leadership to provide the same comfort and sympathy that he had after he had rescued him. No doubt it would return once Colm had been dealt with but until then Dutch was the leader, not that father. 

"I feel out of control Dutch," Arthur said, ducking his head to look at the floor. "I need this for me. I need this for him."

"For him? " Dutch hissed. "Have you lost your godamned mind?"

"Maybe I have!" Arthur shouted. "Reckon I lost a lot of me just lately Dutch. That man is terrified." Arthur pointed in the direction of the hitching post that Aaron was tied to.

"And your point?" Dutch said, quiet and calm. 

"Christ sake Dutch, I was terrified! I was out of my mind! When was the last time you was tortured huh!?"

"We have not tortured him Arthur, we have barely touched him."

"You don't get it do you!? You don't need to touch him! You've tortured him anyway."

"Arthur..." Dutch began before Arthur cut him off, his anger and panic and sadness far outweighing his obedience. 

"Don't 'Arthur' me Dutch," he shouted. "You saw my drawings, but they ain't even the half of it. You have no idea how much they hurt me, and when they wasn't hurting me they were leaving me thinking about how much they wanted to hurt me."

"You want the O'Driscoll so badly Arthur then he's yours," Dutch said to him, quiet and low. He stepped to tent entrance, a fist around the edge of the canvas opening as he turned back to Arthur. "But you kill him when I tell you and you leave Colm to me. Do we have an understanding on that?" Arthur held Dutch's gaze for as long as he dared, until it became too much to look directly at him. 

"We do," he said. Dutch pulled the tent flap back and left Arthur alone.

\---------------------------------------

Arthur listened to Dutch calling out across camp, giving orders to people, his voice getting quieter as he moved further away from the tent. He let Dutch get away a bit more before pushing out of the tent, taking his hat of to rake his fingers through his hair then settling the hat back in place.

"Arthur!" He turned to the sound of his name, seeing Hosea stood with Betsi, noticing that he was saddling her up and checking that she had weapons and saddlebags and anything else someone going out for a while would need. "All sorted?" Hosea asked as Arthur reached him. Arthur leaned in to press his face to Betsi's, letting her huff on to his cheek and into his ear. He rubbed a hand down her neck and patted her, whispering to her as he did. He reckoned that Hosea had probably heard almost everything that has been said between him and Dutch anyway. 

"You could say that," he said. "What's this all about?" He waved a hand generally about Betsi.

"Well I thought you might like to go on ahead with the first group." Arthur looked around, his hand never breaking contact with Betsi, until he caught sight of John. He could feel that his breathing had picked up a little. He scratched at Betsi, letting his fingers dig into her coat, letting the feel of her ground him. John would be one day behind, no more than that. He bargained it out with the panic that was welling up. Only one day out in front and then he could deal with Aaron, let Dutch deal with Colm and be back in camp.

"Thanks Hosea," Arthur said. "That's real good of you." He moved to Betsi's side, checked the saddle, looked through the saddlebags and inspected the weapons. Not his own still but they would do the job. "Give me a minute to get some things," he said. 

Back at his tent he picked through his travelling chest, finding an old gun belt and holster, a worn bandolier with splits in the leather. Putting them on he realised that he had forgotten how comforting the weight of their solidity could be. Just like when he had put his hat back on. Just like the feel of Betsi beneath him. It felt good. It felt like normality. It felt like the days anger and shame could be soothed. He knew that Hosea had got it in one, wily man that he was, and that sending Arthur on ahead was the best course of action. 

"Got everything?" Hosea asked him when he returned. "Looks good to see you like that again." 

"Yeah," Arthur said. "You always was too clever for your own good."

"Oh I'm sure," Hosea said, laughing. "I'll deal with Dutch. You know what he's like, dog with a bone and he isn't going to give it up until he's got what he wants." Arthur mounted Betsi and tipped his hat at Hosea, turning her toward Charles, Sean and the ladies. 

"Thank you," he said, then kicked Betsi off and away.


	19. Chapter 19

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Huge delay getting this chapter up and honestly I'm not sure how i feel about it. It says what I want it to but I can't seem to be happy with it. :( Sorry.
> 
> Sorry if I've not replied to any comments yet... school holidays are always quite hard work for us but I'll get around to it soon. 
> 
> I think there's only going to be one more chapter after this. I hope you've all enjoyed it.

Arthur rode through the afternoon and into the evening behind Sean and Charles, behind Karen and Tilly and Mary-Beth. He was comfortable to be behind the group in the daylight and even as the sun began to dip lower he felt happy enough to be away from the need for talking, the need for using words for words sake. His own head might not be the most settled of places but he could at least count on it to occupy himself. It was only as the sun dropped itself down behind the horizon that he felt the familiar crawling sensation at his back. The monster coming again to get him if he did not move fast enough. He kicked Betsi on, moved her up through the other horses to find safety in numbers. Without the idea of his back being exposed he found comfort easier to come by.

"Arthur," Charles called over to him in greeting as he joined the front of the group.

"Charles," he replied. He wanted to ask them to stop. To set up camp for the night. To hunker down and wait until day time so far away from the main camp and from safety and from everthing that had surrounded him and kept him from harm. "Been a while since I rode for this long," he said, settling instead for a throwaway comment that might elicit more sympthy for potential saddle soreness than for unseen terrors in the night.

"I'd not thought of that. We'll stop soon, give us all a rest and make sure we're rested for tomorrow." Charles often had more compassion than Arthur knew what to do with and he could not but wonder that this was one of those times.

"Seems like a good idea," said Arthur, instead of the many thank yous that wanted to spill over for taking up his hint and running with it.

Charles held up a hand in the ever diminishing light to catch everyone's attention before they would struggle to see under the increasingly inky sky. He brought Taima around and called out to stop everyone, to make camp for the night. Old habits as ever dying hard, Arthur dismounted and began stalking from person to person. He helped them where he could and made sure to tell everyone to keep the noise down, to keep lanterns out, to make only a very small fire if they really had to but preferably to eat from whatever dried foods and preserves they had brought with them. No singing, no drinking. He made sure that everyone had already checked their weapons before they left camp. He told the ladies to know where the poison was for their trips to the saloons the next morning and into the afternoon. He knew that he was being an annoyance but everyone took it in good humour, saying nothing to him other than calm and measured assurances that all would be well. Only when he was satisfied did he set out his own bedroll, taking care to place it closely to Charles and Sean's such that he would not be on the outer edge of their gathering. Around him his friends settled themselves on to their own bedrolls and quietly began swapping stories and jokes in the cooling night air.

\------------------------------------------------------

The sound of shuffling, the sound of a sigh and the rustling of clothes woke Arthur slowly. He opened one eye, not alarmed but cautious. He realised that somewhere among all of the old rehashed camp tales he must have drifted off. It had felt good, the calm that had sent him off to sleep. He considered that it was more than likely the gentle presence of the ladies and the ever calming Charles that had made him so comfortable, particularly with no John there to talk him down, no Hosea to look out for him. Sean, for all his bluster and incessant chit chat was a solid fighter and a capable shot and those were qualities that Arthur admired.

"C'mere," he heard Sean say. He sounded fond, gentle. He sounded a million miles away from his usual persona. More rustling and moving and he heard a contented sigh, clearly female in origin. By his own admission it had been some time since he had last lay down with anyone but he knew the sounds of hands moving under blankets, the sounds of lips meeting lips.

"Sean," he recognised the voice as Karen. It made him smile to himself. Living the life that he and and his family did made relationships hard to start, harder to maintain and sadly easy to forgo. He knew that well enough from bitter experience in the past. It was not a life made for romance, it was not a lifespan made for longevity. "Do you think he'll be okay?"

"Arthur?" he heard Sean ask.

"Yeah, Arthur."

"The man's been through a lot. Can't imagine how it must've been for him. Bound to take a while to come back around from that." Arthur listened to more movement and the sound of a kiss pressed up against skin. He could imagine Sean placing his lips to Karen's forehead. "Don't you worry my darlin' girl. Your Englishman'll be just fine, you watch and see if he isn't."

The funny thing was, hearing the words spoken in Sean's accent, in the easy going way that only he could manage at a time like this, Arthur found it easy to believe what he had heard before he succumbed to sleep again.

\-------------------------------------------------------------

Their small group rose with the sun, synchronised by old habits. With very little to pack away they were better able to tend to their horses and ready themselves for the day ahead. Having Arthur there allowed for one man and one woman to team up equally. Looks being as deceiving as ever, the ladies were not the kind to need men to help them very often but should the need arise they had enough cover.

"Keep your heads down," Charles told them before they mounted up. "If anyone looks like they're in trouble then help. But only then."

"We'll be quiet as mice," Mary Beth said.

"And as low down and dirty as rats," Karen said wickedly.

With everyone mounted up, fired up, ready to go as they would ever be, they rode toward their designated meeting point with the rest of the gang via every saloon that they could find. Sean watched Karen, Arthur kept an eye out for Mary Beth and Charles looked out for Tilly. Anyone that they could identify as being an O'Driscoll or having an O'Driscoll affiliation promptly had his drink laced with poison, the movement quick and subtle. They travelled swiftly and acted quickly, only ever refreshing themselves with water from canteens and salted meet to chew on while they stayed in the saddle. The closer they got to the meeting point, and the closer they got to Hanging Dog Ranch, the fewer and farther between the saloons became. Yet with that, and no doubt for that reason, they were able to come by increasingly larger gatherings of O'Driscolls as they went. It was an easy job by anyone's standards. The ladies had done far worse things and in far harder circumstances so slipping things into drunken idiots shot glasses was barely even a task at all. 

"Okay," said Charles as they all mounted up following another successful round in a saloon. "We don't want to risk any more so close to the meet up. Just thin the numbers Hosea said, and times running out. Let's get where we're going."

Arthur was more than happy to see sense in what Charles had said, eager to mount up, desperate to see the situation to completion and feel free to consider what could come next without the fear of Colm looming at the back of his mind. Maybe, just maybe, panic could finally be sent back to where it belonged. With that thought in mind he spurred Betsi on, refusing to consider what Dutch had planned. He let the firm and very real feeling of Betsi calm him, he tensed his wrists and breathed deeply and reached a hand up to push his hat a little more firmly on to his head as they all picked up speed. The thought came into his head from nowhere at all. When everything was settled and they were back at camp he was going to draw John and Jack, father and son. He was going to buy a frame and leave it for them to find. He was going to produce something for this world for no greater reason than that it would be good and it would make someone happy for no reason at all. It was that, the composition in his mind flexing and changing that kept his thoughts wholly occupied until they reached their meeting point. 

\----------------------------------

"If anyone wants to ask anything then you have until I mount up," said Dutch. The plan was as set as it was going to be. The window of opportunity would close if they waited any longer. After being taken down from the Count, Aaron was bound and gagged and atop Taima, she probably being the calmer of any of the mounts. It was her or Betsi but Arthur suspected that Dutch was worried that he would succumb to Aarons pitiful situation and free him instead of the bullet between the eyes that he had promised Dutch already. "There will be no mistakes ladies and gentlemen." Dutch moved away from where they had all stood in front of him, went to the Count and began mounting up, a sure sign that he had never actually been inviting anyone to question him anyway. 

Everyone else followed suit, and Arthur just about caught what Charles was telling Aaron. Something about making no problems for them and getting a quick end for his troubles. Arthur pretended not to notice the wet stain going down the front of the man's trousers. He knew what it was to be so helpless as to end up pissing yourself. He promised himself that the last words that Aaron would hear would be good ones. As they kicked their mounts forwards toward the side of the slope that would hide them into they went in on foot, Arthur pulled Betsi up to ride alongside John. Just being near to his brother made him feel better, and right now being away from Aaron was necessary. 

"You good?" John asked him. 

"Sure," Arthur said, knowing that John would not feel the need to probe further than that. 

"Anything you need?"

"No," said Arthur. "We've got each other's back." He looked across at John, met his eyes and nodded at him as he nodded back.

Arthur was content to let the rest of the ride pass in silence. No one was speaking anyway. A quick glance around showed everyone to be focused, preparing themselves for what was ahead, mentally readying themselves. He knew what their thoughts would be because he was thinking the same. It was the most that he had felt like he used to in a long time, tempered only by his need to care for Aaron in his last moment. He, and he knew the others would be too, was checking off where everything in his satchel was. He was thinking of how many bullets he had, which guns to use first and which would be his back up and why. He was tallying his medical supplies. He was recognising his weaknesses in a battle situation and working out how best to mitigate them. He considered the details until they arrived, his final consideration being which gun to use on Aaron, taking care with the choice. Dutch had slowed and was silently holding up one hand. He lowered it outstretched to one side, motioning that everyone should dismount a way off to his right where the horses could be hidden in amongst some trees that grew there. Arthur watched Charles move Aaron from Taima to sit with his back against a tree, securing him there. Clearly they were not taking him with them. All around him in near silence everyone was readying themselves, almost the entire gang being present save for Miss Grimshaw, Uncle, Swanson, Strauss and Hosea. They had remained at camp knowing that their strengths were in the planning, in the tending and in the caring. Knowing that part of their family was ready and waiting for them made Arthur feel much calmer. If needs be they had dynamite although Dutch had warned them that it was a last resort. They had throwing knives to try to get as close as possible before they needed to shoot. Anything, as far as Dutch was concerned, to stop Colm being killed before he had chance to finish him off the way that he had planned. They had to hope that Hosea's plan would bear fruit now, as more often than not the O'Driscolls had the advantage of numbers. 

Advancing towards the crest of the hill they fanned out, spreading themselves as wide as they could without compromising their attack stance. In an effort at more stealth, everyone had readied their guns and were relying on keeping their fingers away from the triggers rather than doing anything in ear shot of an O'Driscoll. The alarm needed to be raised as late as possible. They were all a good shot, but Charles and Javier had the edge when it came to stealth, and so by unspoken agreement they moved ahead and took out a guard each. Silent in the late afternoon no one was any the wiser yet. 

Arthur looked across to check that John was still in his line of sight. He was relieved to find that he was more focused than he had thought he would be. His usual crutches of fingers across his mouth or pulling his back muscles had not even crossed his mind. Seeing John, seeing his brother, seeing him ready and able and knowing that he was going to help make things right settled Arthur before he even knew that he might be unsettled at all. Arthur advanced behind Charles and Javier as they pulled their knives from the O'Driscoll corpses. They continued to push ahead, a few more guards falling almost silently, the occasional choking sound easily carried off on the wind. The alarm however, was inevitable. It was always going to be raised at some point allowing all hell to break loose, tempered only slightly by a lifetime of outlawing giving the edge of order amongst the chaos. 

To his right he could see John, all guns blazing, taking down O'Driscolls with an attention that the untrained eye would mistake as frantic. To his left he saw Charles and Karen, Charles taking a graze from a bullet to his left arm, slowing him down and forcing Karen ahead of him. Behind them just hidden in The tree line, Pearson was picking men off for them, sniper riffle in hand and preventing them from getting pinned down in one spot. It enabled an advance that gave them an even greater advantage. The guns that Arthur had might not have been his own but the use of them came back more easily than anything had since he had been rescued. The first thing that he had not needed to think about consciously. He was conscious of Dutch yelling out orders, threats, directions, but over twenty years of running with him had taught Arthur what he needed to listen to and what he could filter out. He was able to flinch away on nothing more than instinct, sounds of gun shot and screaming fading into one in the back ground, keeping himself level headed and in the moment. He registered that each shot he made was not Colm before he pulled the trigger, refusing to take in features that might identify them as being involved in the torture that he had been subjected to. Breathing heavily, still used to resting, he pushed on, shooting and moving, hiding and weaving. A quick glance around reassured him that none of his friends were dead although he could see that Charles was still down and somewhere behind him he heard Tilly yelling at them to go on, that she would be fine. He took her at her word and pushed ahead, taking down more O'Driscolls, seeing benefit of Hosea's plan and how well it had been enacted. The upper hand was theirs as gun shots became less frequent. They were able to move more easily, the remaining O'Driscolls still none the wiser as to Pearsons position which was still taking them down one at a time and giving them no chance to see who was killing them. 

A sudden lull brought Arthur to a halt, skidding a little as he stopped. 

"Colm!" Dutch shouted out. "This is finished. Your time is up." Arthur looked around. They were stood where they had last finished shooting. Bodies lay all around them, gun smoke lingering in the air. No bird song to be heard. Everyone kept a careful hold on their weapons, ready for any ambush. A quick head count reassured Arthur that they were all accounted for, Mary Beth in a huddle with Charles and Tilly, patching them up as best she could while they had the chance.

"Colm!" Dutch shouted again. Arthur looked all around him, could see everyone else doing the same thing when he heard the creaking of a door being opened, diverting his attention. From inside one of the buildings that made up the ranch, Colm stepped out into the light, hands up above his head.

"Well look at you Dutch," he said. "All this way out here just for me? I must have done something to really piss you off this time. You never came looking for me this hard after Annabelle."

"Like I said, this is finished," said Dutch. 

"And Mr Morgan," Colm said, turning his attention on Arthur. "Managed not to piss yourself this time I see." Arthur felt the shame of that statement keenly, could feel the heat rising up from his neck and showing in the redness of his face. "No need to be embarrassed, we've all been there. Oh no. Wait. We haven't though have we? Just your sorry ass getting whipped up good and proper by me and my men."

"Sean if you would be so good as to tie our friend up good and tight please," Dutch said, the calm statement worse than his raging and shouting. Dutch followed a few paces behind Sean, reaching Colm as his hands were being secured behind his back. "There is nothing left for you to fight now," he said as Colms ankles were bound as well. 

\-------------------------------------

Everyone sat around the still smouldering camp fire at Dutch's order. Arthur could feel both John's and Dutch's gaze upon him as he sat uncomfortably chewing on a piece of roasted rabbit, the flavour gone out of it some minutes ago.

"I gotta take a piss," Arthur muttered around the dry rabbit, swallowing it thickly and standing up. 

"Arthur," Dutch said. He said no more. He did not need to say anything. It was a one word warning. Arthur was not to do anything to get in the way of Dutch's plan, nothing was to be allowed to change what he had in mind. And so it was that Arthur took himself away from the camp fire, away past Colm who was stood beneath the thick branch of a tree, a noose around his neck and a gag in his mouth, away from Aaron who was sat on the dirt next to Colm and tied roughly and tightly to a tree trunk. He walked away until the talk around the fire became distant enough that he could not make out the words anymore, finally letting himself feel what he had not let out all day. Silently he bowed his head and let tears drip on to the floor. 

"He's too far gone," John said, approaching noisily enough so as not to startle him. "This'll get better once his plan is outta the way." 

"You mean I'll get better," Arthur muttered towards the ground. 

"Yeah," said John. "Matter of fact I do mean that."

"I tried explaining it to him," Arthur said, rubbing at his eyes and straightening up to face John. "He doesn't get it, how this is torture as much as hitting and kicking and whipping is. I don't remember Aaron hurting me."

"I know," John said. "Look, Dutch wanted me to come get you. Reckon he must be ready for his big finish. It's nearly done Arthur." John moved towards him, raised a hand to pat down on Arthur's shoulder before changing his mind and pulling him in for a hug, holding him tightly the releasing him and squeezing his wrists before letting go. "You're nearly done."


	20. Chapter 20

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> EPILOGUE

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And so it is done. Thank you all so much for coming along for the ride. If you would like to leave a comment then please do, don't be shy. I always try to answer them all. I'd love to know peoples thoughts. 
> 
> I hope that you have all enjoyed what i thought might be a three chapter fic. It kind of took off on me! 
> 
> Thank you again. I hope you all like this last chapter. 
> 
> X

EPILOGUE

Arthur was hot. Too hot by far. But work needed doing and the logs weren't about to get up and chop themselves. He swung the axe again, splitting a log clean in half.

"Too damned hot," Hosea called out to him. 

"Sure!," said Arthur, resting the axe down on the ground and wiping at his face with his hand. "Easy for you to say old man. You just get on with sitting in the shade why don't you!" Hosea laughed and straightened out the newspaper that he was reading. Arthur had to concede the point though, it really was too damned hot. Pulling down his suspenders he let then hang from the waist as he unbuttoned a couple of buttons on his shirt and pulled it over his head, leaving it in a heap on the floor. 

"Well don't worry then Hosea," he said. "I got this."

"Exactly why I'm leaving you to it. I'd only make a mess of it." Hosea said, smiling.

Arthur continued on, his back exposed to the sun, tanned mostly with lines of scar tissue that would never tan the way the rest of him did. But it felt good to have the air on his over heated skin, to not care about what he looked like. To know that people had stopped looking and started to remember how to talk to him like he was not made of glass again. Splitting a few more logs he set the axe down and stretched his neck out left and right. 

_"You see Colm," Dutch said as he pulled on the rope around Colms neck. "You remind me of a mosquito.  
A lways there, buzzing buzzing buzzing," he said, pacing a slow circle. "It's annoying but I can usually wave my hand and you go away for a while. But this time the mosquito bit me. And you know what happens to mosquitos that bite? They get squashed so they can't do it again to anyone else."_

Arthur made his way across to the barrel that held their washing water and scooped a few handfuls out and on to his face to cool himself down before taking up a cup to draw from the drinking water next to it. Satisfied that he was about as cool as he was going to be that day he went and picked out a clean shirt to put on and slung his satchel across his chest. He checked quickly inside to make sure that he had everything that he needed before calling out to John and Dutch that he was heading into town for a while. 

_Dutch mounted up on the Count, the rope of Colms noose attached to the saddle horn and looped up over the branch above him. Clicking his tongue and nudging backwards on the reins, Dutch backed him up, the noose tightening and pulling, creaking and stretching. Colm grunted through his gag at the movement, at the lift of his feet leaving the ground._

Hitching Betsi up, Arthur went and bought her some treats from the general store. He took his time selecting a wooden backed frame of silver that he knew Abigail would appreciate even if John did not even notice it, and then he crossed the street to the gunsmiths. Small windows meant shadows and shadows meant cool which he enjoyed while the shop keeper took his revolver out back and engraved the letters into it that he had requested. 

_Arthur had looked at the ground. He could hear the desperate fuss that Colm was making. He could hear the choking. He had seen enough hangings gone wrong to know that he did not want to look. It carried on. And then it carried on some more. It was sickening Arthur almost to the stomach so he distracted himself by readying the revolver that he had chosen to shoot Aaron with. He checked it, and then he checked it again, the very tips of Colms tied boots occasionally twitching into the periphery of his vision._

He decided to treat both himself and Betsi by putting her up in the stables just outside of town and himself up in the small hotel just across from a saloon. He allowed himself the luxury of a few shots of whiskey. Enough to feel warm but not enough to get sloppy. Time had passed, so much time. And like Hosea had promised him so very long ago, time was what he needed. He still wore his bandanas, and John had started calling him wrists often enough that it had stopped being a reminder and started being a memory that he could pick up and examine when he chose to. It had stopped creeping up on him but drunkenness was still something that he avoided now, just in case. 

_"Listen friend," said Arthur, kneeling next to Aaron, ignoring Colms lifeless hanging body not more than a few feet away. Aaron looked up at him and said nothing. "This life we got? It ain't no good thing. But I promise you that I will make sure you leave it the best way you can." Behind them Dutch coughed, the meaning obvious. To hurry the hell up. Arthur sighed and stood, cocking the gun and pointing it steadily between Aarons eyes. "All I am right now is sorry, " he said and pulled the trigger the moment the last word left his mouth._

The morning broke as hot as all hell again. Before leaving his room Arthur opened up the frame and placed a picture in there of John and Jack, something to surprise them and Abigail with when he returned. He pushed his hat well down on his head to keep the sun from his face and fetched Betsi, an apple in his hand for her. She ate it and huffed the hat off his head so that she could mess at his hair with her lips, making him laugh. 

"Silliest horse in all America girl," he said, smiling as he bent to retrieve his hat. Leading her out of the stall he paid the stable owner on the way out and mounted up, turning Betsi on to the road. The ride ahead was long but having stopped for the night in town marked the half way point. If he was fast enough be might just make it back to town in time to turn in for the night, save camping in the wilderness. Arthur gave Betsi her head and let the changing landscape blur it's way past him. 

_"I'm going out for a bit," Arthur announced into the silence that followed Aarons death._

_"And where are you going?" Dutch asked, his tone of voice instantly angering Arthur._

_"Damned if I know Dutch," he shouted. "But seeing as we just killed everyone likely to want to torture me I think i should be safe. Chrissakes Dutch!"_

_"Son..."_

_"No Dutch! No!" Arthur faced him down. "It's done. Colm is swinging, aren't you happy!? I've killed Aaron, aren't you happy!? Let it go Dutch, drop the act because it is done." He walked past everyone, all of them watching him as he went back over the hill they had come from until he walked up to and in to the side of Betsi, pressing himself to her before riding off. He waited until well after night fall to come back, quietly checking for signs of life. He told no one when he returned to camp days later that Colm and Aaron now each had a grave. ___

Hanging Dog Ranch was holding on in the face of nature trying to overwhelm it. A little wildlife here and there but Arthur was relieved that he was not going to have to convince any people to move along. Swinging himself down off Betsi he left her to graze and picked his way past the weeds to the unmarked spot where only he knew that two bodies lay. He riffled through his satchel, coming up with a small hand shovel, more than sufficient for the shallow holes he planned on digging. He started working above Aarons resting place first, digging down a few inches deep and a few more wide. Leaving the shovel to one side he took hold of the revolver that he had had engraved the day before. Turning it over in his hands he inspected the work. RIP AOD. It was the best that he could do and heaven knew it had taken him long enough to work himself back to a place where he could do this. He laid the gun in the hole and scooped the earth back over it. 

"I'm real sorry Aaron. We all got caught up in things we had no control over. Can't even say which of us came out better some days."

Taking the shovel back up he dug another hole over Colms grave, then reached into his satchel for the pictures that he had drawn for John so very long ago. He sat back and opened the pages out, looking over the images, satisfied at the short leash that panic stayed on these days. Folding them back again he laid them in the hole and covered them back over, tucking the shovel away and standing. 

"I don't know where folk like us go when we die," he said at the earth that covered Colm. "Maybe we get to heaven, maybe hell. Maybe some place in between. But you carry these with you, so you never get to forget what put you where you are now. Because I tell you this. I don't need them no more." Mounting back up on Betsi he turned them back in the road, back the way they had travelled. 

"Come on girl," he said. "Let's go home."


End file.
